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‘PONT, IN AN EVIL MOMENT I FELL IN LOVE WITH A WOMAN.’ 


Frontispiece, 


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I 


THE FOOL 


By 

William H. Carson 

II 


AUTHOR OF 

^^HESTER BLAIR' 



Illustrations by W. H. Worrall 


G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 


PUBLISHERS 


NEW YORK 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

T>vo Copies Received 

MAY. 21 1902 

Copyright entry 
CLASS ®-XXa No. 
COPY B. 


Copyright, 1902, by 
G. W. DILLINGHAM CO. 

Issued June, 1902 


[All rights reserved] 


The Fool 


< C L < < < < 


C < . < 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I. 

The FooLs Hidden Love. . 


7 

IL 

‘‘I Would Sacrifice All.^^ . 


. 24 

III. 

Roaring Dave’s Faint Heart. 


• 37 

IV. 

The Fool and Pont. . 


. 58 

V. 

Nan’s Departure. 


• 71 

VI. 

The Fool’s Deception. 


. 89 

VII. 

Man’s Hopeless Love. 


, 104 

VIII. 

The Fool in New York. 


. 116 

IX. 

“ Even I Have Loved.” 


. 129 

x. 

A Bird’s Message of Love. 


• 143 

XI. 

The Fool Returns to Oldfleet. 


• 155 

XII. 

Retribution Overtakes the Squire. 


. 169 

XIII. 

‘‘I Will Win Him Back.” 


. 180 

XIV. 

‘‘My First and Last Role.” 


. 192 

XV. 

Big Dan Bets 



XVI. 

The Yacht Race. 


. 218 

XVII. 

Chentington Presses His Suit. . 


• 243 

XVIII. 

The Revenge of Roaring Dave. 


. 257 

XIX. 

Dave and Betty Surprise Aunt Martha. 

. 275 

XX. 

Death of Nan 


. 292 

XXL 

Dave’s Wedding Suit. 


. 305 

XXII. 

Sweet Cider With a Fizz. , 


‘ 317 

XXIII. 

“ Pont, It Is Time to Sleep.” 


. 324 


\ 


■ r 


1 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


“ Pont, in an evil moment I fell in love with a woman/' 
Frontispiece 

“When, pray, did you come to the conclusion that I was 
a failure ?" 

It became apparent that it was disabled and at the mercy 
of the sea 


FAGS 

63 

107 

263 


The touch of her lips deadened all sense of pain. . . 


268 



THE FOOL. 


CHAPTER L 

THE FOOL^S HIDDEN LOVE. 

'T LOVE you.’" 

Chentington’s tones were seductive. Nan’s reply 
was a rippling laugh, bantering, tantalizing, mad- 
dening. She fearlessly met his glance — no love-light 
in her eyes. Her voice, when she spoke, was with- 
out tremor or emotion ; but her eyes still laughed — 
in her, passion slumbered. She answered with the 
directness of unconscious girlhood. 

‘‘Love! Dear me! I love Uncle Dave; I dearly 
love to go to the theater when I go to Boston, and — 
I love Lem’s dog.” 

She paused and looked at him, smiling. He 
colored slightly. “Why do you love me?” she asked 
abruptly. “You have known me only a few months.” 

With ill-considered ardor he began to extol her 
beauty. She checked him with a laugh that sent the 
blood to his face, and what he intended to be a fine 
speech ended in disjointed sentences. His vanity 


8 


THE FOOL. 


had received a shock. He had never considered the 
possibility of his advances being met with derisive 
laughter. 

Nan had been reared on the sea-swept shores of 
Cape Cod. The ocean had been her companion. As 
she stood in the bright sunlight, the slanting beams 
falling full on her face, no blemish was there to mar 
the faultless lines of her features. She was beautiful, 
but she had not discovered it. Her laugh stung 
Chentington’s self-esteem. 

“You should have known that I loved you. You 
always appeared glad to see me.” 

“Of course I was glad to see you, but I don’t 

love you any more than I love Lem. And Lem ” 

The idea seemed preposterous. Again her laugh 
broke upon the stillness. 

I “The stage is my only love. When I am a 
great actress — well, then. I’ll remember what you 
tell me of love. Perhaps I shall understand then, 
but,” she added, mischievously, “you will have 
forgotten.” 

He raised his hand with a gesture of remon- 
strance. 

For answer she once more laughed the blood into 
his face, and, beckoning him to follow, led the way 
to the garden in front of the house. 

The Fool had approached from the rear of the 


V. 


THE FOOL'S HIDDEN LOVE, 


9 


house, and had heard Nan's reference to him. The 
voice had the power to arrest his steps. He paused. 
Understanding the feeling that prompted her rid- 
icule, a shudder swept over him, and he smiled 
bitterly. 

After they had gone, he crossed the open space 
that separated Dave Kurran's home and the boat- 
house where Dave was at work, mending a torn 
sail. 

The life friendship of the two men had never been 
interrupted by word or act that would make less 
their regard for each other. It was founded on a 
life-long confidence, undiminished by time or trial. 
The fisherman looked up as The Fool approached — 
in his right hand a long steel needle, which he held 
suspended in the air. 

‘'Well, Lemmie, I've been expecting yer fer the 
past hour. Where's Pont?" 

“Thought I wouldn't let him come," answered 
The Fool calmly. 

He leaned against the window casing, and, 
through the open door opposite, looked out over the 
ocean. Dave resumed working. 

But few in the town of Oldfleet knew that The 
Fool's name was Lem Mason. That was a fact to 
which the townspeople, as a body, were supremely 
indifferent. From boyhood he had been called “The 


lO 


THE FOOL, 


Fool/’ He was apparently content thus to be 
known; and he regarded with ill-concealed dis- 
approval, not unmixed with suspicion, those who, 
through mistaken consideration for his feelings, ad- 
dressed him by his Christian name. Some there 
were, however, who knew him only as 'Hem,” 
and these — who could be counted on the fingers of 
one hand — never addressed him by any other name. 

He was a wise fool — wiser and older than he 
looked; for his smooth, almost beardless face, ef- 
feminate in contour and expression, gave to him 
an odd, boyish appearance. In his intercourse with 
people his eyes always seemed to be peering beyond 
his immediate surroundings into space; but in un- 
guarded moments they would dance with intelli- 
gence, only to resume their customary disinterested, 
almost vacant expression — dispassionate, impene- 
trable : betraying neither interest, thought, nor emo- 
tion — giving to him the name by which he was com- 
monly known — The Fool. 

He lived alone in an old frame house; and no one 
could remember the time when any of the villagers 
had crossed its threshold. It was a wooden struc- 
ture, with a long narrow L attached to the main 
building, which ran parallel with the street. Cur- 
tains, dust-begrimed and yellow with age, covered 
the windows on the ground floor, and served as 


THE FOOUS HIDDEN LOVE. 


II 


shields from the gaze of the curious passers-by, their 
appearance precluding the hope that hospitality lay 
beyond their weather-stained, mottled surface. The 
roof sagged at the center, the wooden shingles hav- 
ing long since fallen to decay; and the gales of 
many years had left it, in spots, entirely bare. More 
than half the windows were blindless, and the few 
that the mercy of the wind had spared, hung awry 
on rusty hinges, squeaking a disconsolate protest 
at the fitful pleasure of every erratic breeze. In the 
broken panes of glass were stuffed old garments and 
bundles of weather-stained paper, that seemed to 
glare down on the sandy stretch of road in front of 
the house, like deformed spirits keeping vigil over 
the wreck of years. Of what had once been a sharp- 
pointed picket fence, that skirted the road, there re- 
mained but the posts and a few paintless, weather- 
washed staves — some hanging disjointedly on rust- 
eaten nails, others retaining their original upright 
position, standing, like miniature sentinels, on guard 
over the ruin wrought by the unrestrained hand of 
time. The grounds at the sides and rear of the 
house were almost barren, relieved only by a few 
stunted fruit trees, and short tufts of grass and 
weeds growing under the protection of a moss-cov- 
ered, straggling stone wall, whose destruction had 


12 


THE FOOL. 


kept pace with that of the house which it bounded 
on three sides. 

This had been the home of The Fool since child- 
hood, and here he now lived a solitary life, un- 
heeded but by time and his God ; for the world did 
not sufficiently consider him to note that he was 
of it. 

He lived in a manner in keeping with his home, 
in a way as mysterious as were his surroundings. 
He fished a little, but to this source of income he 
was calmly indifferent. When it pleased him to 
work, he did it thoroughly and in silence; or with- 
out comment or explanation, he would wave aside 
an opportunity of adding to his scant earnings. 
The storms and the rains that swept the coast during 
the winter months seemed to inspire him with a de- 
sire for outdoor life, and, tireless and uncomplain- 
ing, he accomplished much. But the warm sunshine 
of early spring and the long summer days, bred a 
disdain within him for all the world had to 
offer, except the joy of living in his own, apparently 
aimless, way. 

The Fool's father had been an eccentric. At his 
death, his property passed into the possession of his 
only son. Of wfiat it consisted besides the home- 
stead, none knew but The Fool and his father's ex- 
ecutor and legal adviser. Even in this, a mystery 


V 


THE FOOUS HIDDEN LOVE. 


13 


developed, and the townspeople had to satisfy them- 
selves with conjectures. 

As The Fool stood looking at Dave through the 
open window, contentment seemed to have taken 
possession of him. The soft warmth of the spring 
day rose in waves from the sandy soil. The air was 
filled with the scent of the scrub-pine and may- 
flower. The sea rippled languishingly. The noon- 
day sun, in a cloudless sky, seemed to pause in its 
course, to lengthen the joy of the wondrous day; 
and the whispering of the sea was the only audible 
sound. 

The Fool broke the silence. 

“Davie, is it true that Nan is going away?'’ His 
voice was pitched in its customary monotone. His 
eyes did not meet those of his companion, who 
looked up quickly, and, answering with a nod of his 
head, resumed his work. 

“How'd yer hear it, Lem?" 

Dave's deep, resonant tones reverberated through 
the boat-house. The softest note in his voice was 
like the mellow boom of a brass instrument, and, 
in moments of excitement, it rose until it could be 
likened to a blast of the gales that made desolate the 
coast of Cape Cod during the winter months. To 
young and old, he was known as Roaring Dave, 
because of his boisterous manner and dis- 


14 


THE FOOL, 


position that had never known restraint. His 
nature, as tempestuous as the sea, could, however, 
be as gentle, tender, and caressing as the warmth- 
laden breeze sighing through the open windows of 
the shanty where he was at work. He seemed en- 
dowed with an erratic soul, which stirred his emo- 
tions into a turmoil ; yet he roared himself into the 
good graces and the hearts of all with whom he 
came in contact. He was the personification of his 
voice — robust, manly, and, in face and figure, after 
a sturdy style, handsome. Age, made doubtful by 
a clear and slightly florid complexion, had fringed 
his luxuriant black hair with iron gray verging on 
silver. His form was as straight as a young sap- 
ling; and his step and carriage those of a youth in 
his teens. Though he was one on whom the eye 
would linger with admiration, it was his voice which 
attracted and fascinated ; and when time had 
dimmed the memory of his face, his voice remained 
with you, its ceaseless echo defying the lapse of 
time. 

To Dave’s question as to how he had heard of 
Nan’s intended departure. The Fool answered: 

^‘Had I heard it from no other source, I could 
have read it in your face. Betty told me she was 
going to New York to study for the stage. Do you 
think it wise, Davie?” 


THE FOOUS HIDDEN LOVE, 


15 

‘‘How should I know, Lemmie, whether it be wise 
or no. I kin haul a net ; Tm a fair shot ; but it ain’t 
fer me ter put my judgment agin Nannie’s. She’s 
bin ter school, an’ she knows more’n I do. Yer 
wouldn’t believe how much she do know.” Warm- 
ing up to his favorite topic, he raised his voice to its 
customary roar. “Why, you’ve heered her recite!’^ 
The Fool nodded affirmatively. “An’, as fer French, 
I don’t know a darn thing about the lingo, but she 
reads it beautiful.” He paused, and his eyes told 
that trouble was with him. “I’m afraid she’s goin’, 
Lemmie. She knows best what to do.” 

“You’ll miss her, Davie.” 

“Yes,” he answered. There was a note of sad- 
ness in his voice. He again spoke gently, as was his 
custom when talking with The Fool. “Lemmie, I 
can’t bear to think of it, and the loneliness when she 
is gone.” 

Had Dave seen the expression that flashed across 
The Fool’s face, he could not have divined it — its im- 
port would have baffled him. It was like the ray of 
intelligence to the clouded mind of one dying, when, 
for an instant, returning reason flashes across the 
pathway of the life he is leaving, only to again die 
into the mist of madness. The light that shone in 
The Fool’s eyes blazoned his secret to the world, but 
none there were who saw it. It was still his own. 


x6 


THE FOOL. 


Walking to the door, he entered the shanty and 
seated himself beside the fisherman, who, deep in 
thought, seemed unconscious of his presence ; then, 
directing a searching glance at the mobile counten- 
ance before him, he endeavored to read what he saw 
there, for in the eyes of the fisherman was a troubled 
look. He had seen Chentington and Nan start in 
the direction of the village. The Fool watched the 
fisherman closely. He noted the frown, the expres- 
sion in the eyes, a slight compression of the lips. 
Dave did not speak, and bent over his work. 

They indulged in fragmentary conversation and 
bits of local gossip. Then followed a long silence. 
The same subject filled the minds of both men, but 
neither cared to voice his thoughts. Nan’s depart- 
ure touched them deeply, but each buried in his own 
heart the feelings which he dared not utter. 

^‘Lem,” said Dave abruptly, '‘what do you think 
of them actor people?” 

"You know,” smiled The Fool, "fully as much 
about them as I. There are good and bad in all 
professions.” 

Dave looked at him fixedly for a full half minute. 
Then, with a roar: "I think they are a damn bad 
lot.” 

The Fool did not venture a reply. Dave con- 
tinued, sorrow in his voice : 


THE FOOUS HIDDEN LOVE. 


‘‘I wish she hadn’t got this notion into her head, 
but she has, and I’ll not go agin her. She’s all I’ve 
got in the world, an’ I won’t hev her say that her 
Uncle Davie stood between her an’ what she thought 
was best for her.” 

Nan drew near, singing softly, and paused be- 
fore the window, her eyes bubbling with merri- 
ment, her color heightened by her walk from 
the village. The two men looked up, and, while 
Dave’s eyes rested upon her with conscious pride. 
The Fool’s heart sank within him. She held a letter 
aloft. With an effort Dave forced a smile, but the 
look of apprehension deepened. 

'‘See, Uncle Dave,” she said, "the answer has 
come.” Noting his expression, she hurried on: 
"Dear me! You look so mournful, one would im- 
agine you had heard bad news. It’s 'y^?/ ’’ she 
exclaimed, "and I am to go at once.” 

She evidently expected some expression of satis- 
faction from Dave, but he remained silent. He had 
never learned the art of dissembling. His eye spoke 
his thoughts, and they were not cheerful ones. 

"Aren’t you glad. Uncle Dave?” asked Nan, 
somewhat hurt at the fisherman’s apparent lack of 
interest. 

"Why, yes, Nannie, of course Fm glad that yer 
letter came ; but, yer see ” 


i8 


THE FOOL. 


Turning from the window, Nan entered the boat- 
house, and, standing behind Roaring Dave, 
twined her arm about his neck, and pressed her lips 
lightly to his cheek. 

‘‘There, there, Nannie, I suppose Til get used to 
it. Comes kinder hard at first, little one; but we 
all get used to things. When d'yer think yerdl go?'' 

“The last of the week," she answered, gaily. 

She did not notice the expression which, for an 
instant, caused the muscles about Dave's mouth to 
twitch convulsively, nor did she see the look that 
flashed between the two men; and The Fool, turning 
to the open door, was unheeded by either of his com- 
panions. These little evidences of feeling passed un- 
noticed by Nan, who was scanning the letter. She 
had not awakened to the fact that two hearts were 
mourning — that already the shadow cast by her de- 
parture enveloped them. She was blinded by the 
brilliancy of her own future, and anticipation had 
deadened every other emotion. 

When an infant she had been adopted by Roaring 
Dave, who lavished affection upon her that was pa- 
thetic in its tenderness, and blind in its unwavering 
faith. She accepted the sacrifices he made for her, 
with thoughtless disregard of what they had cost 
him; and he, in the greatness of his love, looked 
upon them as her due, and as a matter of course. 


THE FOOUS HIDDEN LOVE. 


19 


Her wishes had been his law ; he had bowed before 
her whims with never a thought but of her — always 
her. On his part it had become a life of continual 
sacrifices—accepting greater risks in the pur- 
suit of his vocation, daring the sea in weather that 
made the stoutest heart and the bravest pause and 
consider. But Dave only roared the louder when 
death stood off from him. There were moments, 
however, when alone with his thoughts and the mid- 
night sea, vague fears filled him with an un- 
rest that he could not explain. They fought their 
way to his heart, only to be driven off. But they 
would return at some unguarded moment, bringing 
with them such terror as the strongest can know — 
the terror of overwhelming doubt that is the death 
of hope; for at such moments, Dave realized that 
neither by blood nor sympathy was Nan his own. 

Roaring Dave had never had a confidant during 
the forty years of his eventful life. Such joys as he 
had known, he had shared with friends and foes 
alike, without favor or reservation ; but his troubles 
were his own, and, of them, no man knew. He con- 
fided in no one, believing every man should be his 
own confessor. He trusted the world and all men, 
for he was, in a way, guileless ; but he who proved 
unworthy of trust, put himself forever beyond the 
pale of forgiveness. With Dave, the wound caused 


20 


THE FOOL, 


by abuse of friendship never healed. But had he 
been forced to repose a trust in any man, that man 
would have been The Fool, for Dave loved him and 
trusted him ; and of the townspeople, who knew The 
Fool, and treated him for what they believed him to 
be, only one man had his moral and mental meas- 
ure — that man was Dave. 

A common, though unspoken cause, to draw the 
two men yet closer together, was their distrust of 
Hugh Chentington. Born in an adjacent town, he 
made New York his home. Two or three times 
yearly he would spend a few days, and, during the 
Summer or Fall, a few weeks, at Oldfleet and along 
the Cape Cod coast, gunning and fishing. What- 
ever his business in the city, and no one had been 
successful in fixing the source of his income or the 
extent of his means, during these visits he spent 
money freely, and with little discrimination. By 
such means he established in the town an unlimited 
credit, and unnumbered friends. By his open ad- 
miration of Nan, he had made two enemies — Dave 
and The Fool. 

Yet, apart from Chentington’s constant visits to 
Nan, and his open admiration for her, neither The 
Fool nor Dave could give a satisfactory reason for 
their enmity. Nan treated Chentington with an off- 
hand cordiality. She listened to his wooing with 


THE FOOUS HIDDEN LOVE. 


21 


laughing eyes, and her reply was a laugh that should 
have disarmed him and put to rout his conceit. She 
was wholly unconscious of any danger or impro- 
priety. He amused her, and she wished to be 
amused. He could talk well, and knew much of the 
world. She listened to him, and was interested in 
his tales of city life. She rewarded him by listening. 
When he talked of love, she laughed. She conde- 
scendingly allowed him to assist her in the selection 
of a tutor, with whom she was to continue her study 
for the stage. When his attention became so marked 
as to give food to the village gossip, she only 
laughed the more. Roaring Dave had never op- 
posed her will. She had but to ask, and, if it were 
within his power, her wish was granted. Her 
thoughtlessness, and apparent lack of feeling, caused 
Dave hours of worry and doubt ; but when with him, 
her laugh put his fears to rout, and he thought only 
how dear she was to him. 

The Fool had returned to the seat on the bench, 
beside the window. Nan lingered at the door. 

‘‘Come up to the house. Uncle Dave, and Vll read 
you my letter.” 

“Won’t you come, Lem?” asked Dave. 

The Fool shook his head, and Nan and her uncle 
passed on to the house. 


22 


THE FOOL. 


The Fool rose, and his gaze followed Nan’s re- 
treating figure. 

Love’s longing, silent, unspeakable, shone in the 
eyes, which lingered where she had entered the open 
door. Pitiful was the look of despair that over- 
spread his face, the muscles of which twitched con- 
vulsively, until his features gradually assumed an 
expression of hopeless dejection. 

He staggered slightly, as if struck by a blow, then 
leaned against the work-bench at the end of the 
room. Emotion was strong within him, and he 
pressed his hand to his temple. His chin had fallen 
upon his breast, and, as he raised his head, his eyes 
rested on a piece of broken mirror, on a small shelf 
against the wall. Reaching for the glass with a life- 
less effort, he held it before his face, and, staring 
into it, drew his fingers across his forehead. With 
an impetuous touch, he tossed his thin, black hair 
from his brow, and, holding his almost beardless 
chin between the index finger and thumb, gazed into 
the mirror, until the pressure of his fingers drove 
the blood to his cheeks. Turning his head so 
that he might see his features in profile, he held 
the glass before him as if to read his own soul. He 
spoke no word, but, like a mist that closes in upon 
the sea, an expression of despair overspread his fea- 
tures. He had seen and understood, and the frail 


THE FOOUS HIDDEN LOVE, 


23 


glass snapped by the force with which he held it, 
the fragments scattering over the floor at his feet. 
A moan escaped him. It was a sound such as a lost 
soul might utter, — a soul that sees its last hope fade 
into nothingness. Sinking again on the bench, a 
dry, tearless sob shook his slight frame; and the 
warm, flower-scented air bore his words, spoken in 
broken tones, out through the open window into the 
summer stillness, ‘'Ah, God ! I am The Fool — The 
Fool.’’ 


CHAPTER 11. 


“l WOULD SACRIFICE ALL.” 

When Roaring Dave started toward the village, 
,he mentally determined that he would go by way of 
the fields — the short cut, and not around by the road, 
thereby lessening the distance to the village one- 
half. But love’s promptings were tugging at his 
heart, and, when he came to the fence, where he 
should have entered to cross the fields, he instinc- 
tively kept on his way and followed the road — a 
road which took him by the house of the one who 
was to him as the sun is to the flower. 

He loved in his mad, impetuous way — a passion 
unrestrained but by the fear that made his very ex- 
istence a torment, for he loved as those who worship 
a star from afar off — at a shrine that seemed to him 
to forbid hope. It had never occurred to his guile- 
less mind that his passion might be answered. Why 
should he hope ; he, whose only companion had been 
the sea; he, who had consorted with danger and 
laughed at death ; he, uncouth of mind, who, in the 
simplicity of his great heart, did not realize that 


7 WOULD SACRIFICE ALL: 


25 


Heaven, with whimsical prodigality, had made him 
a physical god. 

Laughing aloud at his own presumption, he 
plucked a dandelion blossom from beside the road- 
way, and raised it to his lips with princely grace. 
At that moment he was thinking of Betty, who was 
as far removed from him as the rays of sun, that 
were beckoning the night shadows. He laughed 
softly, for love welled up in his heart and filled him 
with an ecstasy of delight. After all, he thought, 
God was good to him. He could love, even if his 
only goal was hope; for how could he believe that 
she could care for him — she, who, in her beauty, 
was of another world. 

Nature’s shrill delight filled the evening with its 
spring symphony. The frogs and turtles piped and 
croaked discordantly. A cow, grazing by the road- 
way, lowed with content, and stared in limpid-eyed 
placidity at the stalwart form of Roaring Dave, 
whose gaze was fixed on the figure of a young girl, 
at work in the flower-bed before the farm house 
which he was approaching. But she was not alone — 
Chentington was leaning over a trellis, arranging a 
climbing rose-bush ; and the woman that the fisher- 
man loved was close to him. 

Passion, like the breath of a hot furnace, swept 
over him. Were it any one but Chentington, he 


26 


THE FOOL. 


would have felt less keenly ; but, as his nature was 
one of extremes, his hate and contempt for the man 
were as unreasoning as his love for Betty Nicker- 
son was idealistic. At that moment he could have 
lifted Chentington bodily in the air and dashed his 
life out on the roadway. Betty, with a fawn's 
grace, was listening with such interest to what 
Chentington was saying that neither observed Dave 
as he passed on his way to the village. 

be not for her," he muttered, when he was well 
by the farm house. '^He's from th' city, with fine 
clothes and finer airs. That be th' way of woman. 
But she doesn't know. How should she? Her 
heart's like that brook ther,' that's a bubbling and a 
bubbling with water as pure as the snow that fed 
it a month back. And he — he's like th' dirt thet 
washes in after a rain, and muddies th' stream. I 
know," he musingly continued, '^thet she'll never 
care for me. Me! Big, lumbering lout! Why, I 
might as well love that star up yonder that's a 
blinkin' an' a laughin' at me. It would be nearer 
ter me. But little woman, I don't want yer ter love 
him — he ain't worth it, not a bit of it. I know I've 
no right ter love her. I'm no one but Roaring Dave, 
an' all I know's how ter fish; an' you — yer wer' 
born fer th' flowers, an' they grow wher' yer walk, 
an’ they bloom wher' yer live. I'm nothin' but a 


7 WOULD SACRIFICE ALL! 


27 


weed — a rank thing thet th' sea breeds/’ He 
walked slowly, for every reluctant step added to 
the distance that separated him from Betty, who, 
bending over the trellis, listened to the honeyed 
words that Chentington was breathing into her ear. 
She met his glance with eyes that said she did 
not understand. 

''Betty,” Chentington was saying, "when, to- 
night, I came upon you among the roses, you re- 
minded me of some beautiful picture that I have 
seen.” 

Betty’s glance was following Dave’s retreating 
figure, that was disappearing at the turn of the road. 
She had just caught sight of him, and she knew 
that he must have passed the house, and seen them, 
and had continued on his way. 

Her glance followed him until he was lost to sight. 
As he disappeared, she gave a little gasp of regret; 
and in her eyes was the disappointment that she felt. 
For a moment she looked in the direction that Dave 
had taken, unheeding Chentington’s remark; un- 
conscious of his presence until he spoke to her again. 

"Dave must have seen us,” said Chentington, who 
had followed her glance, "why didn’t he stop?” 

"Perhaps he hadn’t time,” she answered. 

Chentington stooped to pluck a flower, and the ac- 
tion hid the smile that was on his lips. 


28 


THE FOOL. 


“We haven’t seen much of Dave lately,” he said. 
“No,” Betty answered. Instinctively her eyes 
turned in the direction of the village. 

Chentington, pleading an engagement, hastily 
bade Betty good-night, and walked in the direction 
of Dave’s home. Nan was standing before the door 
of the boat-house, looking out over the sea. She 
greeted him with a frankness that disarmed him; 
for she was to him an enigma. When he 
had met her during the spring months, her 
beauty had attracted him. He regarded her as an 
easy conquest, and had never troubled himself to 
take her mental measure. She was one of the many 
attractive girls that he had encountered, with the 
added distinction of possessing a face and figure of 
uncommon beauty. Her features were of a type 
rarely seen except in southern countries, and be- 
trayed her mother’s ancestry; but her manner and 
bearing stamped her as a distinctively American girl 
—fearless, independent, with a piquant audacity 
that the soil of America breeds in women. 

. “Well,” he asked, “is it all settled? New York 

and the stage or Cape Cod and ” 

“No reflection on the Cape,” she interrupted with 
some warmth, “I won’t have it.” 

“You will consider it differently when you have 
seen more of the world. Remember what is before 


7 WOULD SACRIFICE ALL: 


29 


you. You will succeed. Then you have promised 
to listen to me. Of course, I shall see you in New 
York. We shall be much together. I ” 

‘'Oh, no, we shan’t. I won’t have the time. You 
speak as if I were going there sight-seeing.” 

Her answer nettled him. He was not accustomed 
to being brushed aside by inexperienced country 
girls. The tone of her voice was patronizing. 

“Tell me something of New York,” she said. 
He could not misunderstand the tone. It was a com- 
mand. He changed his plan of conquest. 

She listened to him while he drew the picture of 
what her life would be in New York, in colors that 
he well knew would appeal to her vanity. She should 
continue her study for the stage, her beauty would 
insure her success, even if she were without the tal- 
ent which he assured her she possessed. His words 
flowed in seductive rhythm as he painted the succes- 
sive steps in her future career. First, the necessary 
training which, in her case, owing to her remarkable 
natural ability, would be informal — almost unneces- 
sary. He led her on and on through a vista illumined 
by her beauty to the goal of success. He sang of 
glory, of fame, until her ears, with the thirst of 
burning desire, drank in every word ; while her heart 
responded to every soft inflection of his voice, and 
the color in her cheeks reflected his glowing words. 


30 


THE FOOL, 


She listened, and alas ! she believed ; and therein was 
Nature unkind. Reason should have come to 
her rescue, but her thirst for fame held sway, and 
the seed of vanity had taken root. The man knew it. 

‘‘Have you told your Uncle Dave?'' he asked. 
“What does he say?" 

She was thoughtless, almost to indifference; but 
the mention of Dave's name brought before her the 
loneliness that would follow her going. So far as it 
was in her nature, for that instant she realized the 
sacrifices he had made for her, which she had passed 
unheeded; and she was dimly conscious of the re- 
membrance of such tenderness, as should shame her 
sense of gratitude into life. 

The restful peace of evening was broken only by 
the sea's soft complaining. The dusk, which the 
feeble crescent could not dispel, closed in upon them ; 
and the shadow that The Fool cast, as he approached 
from the opposite side of the building before which 
they were standing, was as faint as the footfall of 
Death, treading the breezes of night. 

The Fool seated himself on an old bench under 
an open window facing the ocean. It was one of his 
favorite haunts. His solitude and his hidden love 
irresistibly drew him to Nan's home, and it 
was not unusual for him to hover about the boat- 
house. He wished to be near and see her as she went 


7 WOULD SACRIFICE ALL! 


31 


about the house and grounds. It was all the happi- 
ness he could hope for; and his coming and go- 
ing caused no more comment, or notice, than would 
that of Dave's hound which was chained in the rear 
of the house. The dog's quick ear had, however, 
recognized The Fool's step. His instincts, not being 
governed by human appreciation of The Fool's 
mental capacity, prompted him to lash the ground 
with his tail, in welcome. 

Chentington's voice, as he answered Nan's ques- 
tion, was the first intimation The Fool had that they 
were near. He started, but remained seated. 

‘'Life for you in New York," Chentington said in 
a soft voice, “will be made beautiful — for your love- 
liness, your talents, can command it. A woman's 
beauty is what inspires men; her, genius is what 
commands them. You will taste the sweets of fame. 
All, for you, will be light, color, brilliancy — theaters 
thronged with people in gorgeous costume, streets 
ablaze with lights, hotels like the palaces of the Old 
World. You have read of them?" he asked. 

“Yes, yes," she sighed the words in rapturous 
delight; anticipation fired her heart with longing 
for the life he painted, and she trembled with the 
emotion that swept over her. 

“I shall succeed," she continued, “yes, I know I 


32 


THE FOOL. 


shall. I should not care to live if I did not. I would 
sacrifice all, all for it.’’ 

Her tone was determined; and she clasped her 
hands together in her intensity of feeling. 

The darkness hid the cynical smile of the man be- 
side her, and the shadow of contempt in his voice 
was veiled as he replied : 

‘‘And you will then let me tell you of my love. 
You know I love you.” 

“Don’t,” she said, “I have lived the past few years 
with only one thought, one desire. I have been 
stifled here. But they do not understand — how 
should they? And now ” 

“Now, the realization of your dream is here.” He 
tried to take her hand in his, but she turned away — 
her laugh ringing on the night stillness. He strode 
beside her. 

“Tell me,” he said, “have you never loved?” 

“Loved?” she echoed, “whom should I love? No,” 
she continued hurriedly, “the man whom I could 
love must be a man among men. He must have ac- 
complished something in the world. I must look 
upon him as my superior — intellectually, physically ; 
but even such a one I could not love until I have 
known the sweets of fame. I have longed and waited 
for years, and I will not now surrender the oppor- 
tunity that is open to me.” 


7 WOULD SACRIFICE ALL! 


33 


‘'And your Uncle Dave consents?” 

“He must. I will allow nothing to stand in the 
way of my future. Besides, he will not miss me after 
a while, and there is no one else to consider.” 

Whatever the power of The Fool to judge Nan 
and her lover, the echo of those voices merged with 
the soft swash of the sea, he did not consider the 
question from its moral or its natural standpoint. It 
was for them to ponder and, if they could, to circum- 
vent the hand, which, with its magnetic and inexor- 
able finger, points to a future whose pathway is 
strewn with the weeds of disappointment and de- 
spair. He was too wise a fool to anticipate that un- 
alterable course of Nature — fixed as the law of 
gravitation — which leads those who are unmindful 
of its workings, and deaf to the pleadings of their 
better instincts, into the morass that clogs the body 
in the mire of a lost life, but leaves the mind to dwell 
on useless regrets, after ingratitude has strangled 
honest love. That was a question which concerned 
Nan, her lover, and their Maker. It was not for The 
Fool. Yet he thought deeply, intently. He sat on 
the bench and peered over the waste of water, and 
the picture, or the succession of pictures that were 
stamped in his memory, resolved before him as in a 
kaleidoscope. 

In a sea shrieking its challenge of death, in 


34 


THE FOOL. 


tones that made the stoutest heart quake, he saw 
Roaring Dave carry a line to a schooner that had 
struck on the bar; saw him battle for hours with 
waves that seemed to mock his efforts, luring him 
on, again and again, with promised calm, only to 
drive him back to the shore, when almost within 
arm^s reach of those who, one by one, were paying 
their debt to the sea. Again he heard the faint, re- 
joicing cry- of the survivors, as Dave was pulled 
aboard the craft, which, even at that moment, threat- 
ened to sink beneath the waves that were wrenching 
it asunder. He saw again the rush of water that 
hurled the fisherman on to the beach — in his arms a 
human mite. He heard his voice above the roar of 
the storm — the memory of which even the lapse of 
years could not dim — as the fisherman passed the lit- 
tle one to him — her arms instantly encircling his 
neck — his. The Fool’s, of whom no one had ever 
asked succor. 'Take keer er th’ kid, Lem, hold ’er 
tight; ther’s one more left aboard.” The tears stole 
into The Fool’s eyes at the remembrance, for he 
could again feel the chubby arms, wet with sea 
water, around his neck. The child’s mother had 
been saved, but died the following day; the father 
had gone down with the wreck. Dave, by the un- 
written law of the sea, was father and mother to the 


7 WOULD SACRIFICE ALL: 


35 


little one, who, even in infancy, gave promise of 
beauty of an unusual type. 

And when the child, Dave's by right of trove and 
the law of love, had been declared out of danger, he 
again saw the fisherman, as he had found him kneel- 
ing by the sea, which had grudgingly given the 
young life, only after he had fought for it in a hand 
to hand struggle with death, giving thanks to the 
sea, the only God he knew. 

The Fool had seen the babe grow to girlhood and 
womanhood, with an affection lavished upon her, a 
yearning tenderness, such only as the great heart of 
this childless man could give — for he was himself a 
child in heart, in mind, in all but the constant sacri- 
fices which he made for her. Again there rose before 
him the look of the wounded deer in the eyes of the 
fisherman, as he held the child in his arms, through 
days that merged into weeks of illness, until he lost 
all reckoning of time, which seemed to halt 
while her young life hung in the balance. He heard 
Dave's faltering appeal — ‘‘Lem, d'yer think she'll 
live? Say she will, Lemmy, say she will." And he 
could see the pleading look of the man for one word, 
one word of hope. 

That child was Nan; and The Fool shuddered, as 
he thought of what was in store for the heart that 
had cherished her through all these years. 


36 


THE FOOL. 


'‘Davie/’ he muttered under his breath, "poor 
Davie.” 

Then his mind reverted to what he had just 
heard ; and, clenching his small, weak hands, *he 
sprang to his feet with a violence that ^swayed the 
bench. With the fear that he was discovered, he 
turned to face Nan and her lover ; but his alarm was 
ill spent — he was alone. He stood a moment, then 
walked slowly toward the water. Night was with 
him, and, with the calm of the sea, lent her aid to 
soothe him. But the pent-up feelings of years, like 
an avalanche which loosens itself from its support, 
and crashes through all barriers that would restrain 
it, swept over him. The waves lapped the sands at 
his feet in fretful ripples as, with bared head, he 
stretched his hand out to the soulless waste before 
him. "If God there be,” he cried, "if it is His power 
that rules the heart of man, why does He not inter- 
vene and save Davie? Visit Thy curse on me, on me 
— misshapen thing that all despise — a thing un- 
loved, and that dares not love — for that I am The 
Fool.” 

He laughed, and if the spirits of the sea heard — 
those whose unmarked graves lie in the eddies of the 
reef, and under the sunken wrecks buried in the 
sand, they must have shuddered — for it was the 
mirth of one whose hope is dead, the cry of one 
whose mind and heart live in Hell. 


CHAPTER III. 


ROARING Dave’s faint heart. 

Dave, meanwhile, after passing Betty’s house, 
with reluctant step went on to the village. 

The soft, mellow tint of the twilight was fading. 
The hush before the lowering of the night shadows 
was broken only by a shrill, joyous peal, and the note 
of content from beast, bird, and insect, heralding, in 
unmistakable sounds, the fact that spring was 
abroad. A whip-poor-will, in a clump of pines 
nearby, piped its night song in forceful rhythm ; and 
the music of distant voices, carried far on the stil 
air, seemed like echoes of long-forgotten sounds. 

But Dave heard nothing; nor did he note the 
beauty of a night whose soft shades seemed loth to 
disturb the tender glow of the fading twilight. 

As he passed the meadow, which lay between 
Betty’s home and the houses on the outskirts of the 
village, his step became firmer and more determined. 
He continually muttered to himself in a troubled 
voice; and the scheme that he was forming seemed 
to be taking definite shape. 


38 


THE FOOL. 


'Tyc got ter raise th’ money,” he said half aloud, 
“Nanny’s got ter have it. She’s goin’ ter have it, 
’n’ thet’s all ther’ is about it.” 

He went on in silence for some minutes; and a 
brass-throated frog in the meadow that bordered the 
road croaked derisively. 

“Drat the thing,” Dave muttered half angrily at 
the sound. “Can’t yer let me think? Three hundred 
’n’ fifty dollars,” he continued. Another pause, and 
the voice from the meadow croaked in almost intel- 
ligible English. “Yer’d better go home, yer’d 
better go home.” 

“No, I hadn’t better go home,” roared back Dave, 
“and ef I hed my fingers on yer derned throat — well, 
yer legs’d never find th’ way to market. That’s all. 
I wonder why they eat them dern, pesky things ?” 

“Yer’d better go home,” came back the reply. 

“I’m a goin’ home,” said Dave, “but not before I 
see Squire Dixon White an’ wring three hundred ’n’ 
fifty dollars out er him; an’ thet’s no easy matter. 
All I’ve got ter give him for security is a second 
mortgage on th’ place” As he uttered the last word, 
his voice died into an almost sorrowful whisper. 

“Th’ old place is all I’ve got left.” His tones fell 
in unnatural echoes on the still night. No one who 
knew Dave would have recognized the voice as his. 
He continued : “It’s about all I ken do ter pay the 


ROARING DAVES FAINT HEART. 


39 


interest on the first mortgage, and keep Nanny in 
dresses an’ things. But she’s got this idea into her 
head — to go ter New York, an’ go on th’ stage; and 
she’s got ter hev th’ money, an’ I’ve got ter git it fer 
her. Who else would, if I wouldn’t?” he added with 
savage emphasis. 

He went on in silence for some minutes, deaf to 
the sounds that filled the night, speaking a language 
that made the heart-beats quicken and the step grow 
lighter. The cloudless sky, like a canopy of sapphire 
set with diamonds, seemed to approach the earth, 
the brilliancy of the star-punctured heavens growing 
with the night. Suddenly he burst into a roar of 
laughter that died into a chuckle. 

'‘Won’t it take th’ Squire’s breath away when I 
ask him fer th’ money.” He spoke in a lower tone, 
for he was nearing the village. 

“That you, Dave?” came a voice from the stoop 
in front of the village store, “heard yer ’fore I saw 
yer.” 

“Hello, Dan! Yer ther’, air yer?” roared Dave. 

The townspeople loved Dave, and he received 
their greetings as a matter of form ; always respond- 
ing in his inimitable and impetuous manner. Down 
to the youngest child they loved to hear his voice — 
its vibrant tones making them forget all else, but 
the hearty good cheer that filled him as he roared 


40 


THE FOOL, 


his welcome. His genial face, and rollicking man- 
ner, instinctively brought out the better part of their 
nature, and they rejoiced with him without question- 
ing the cause. 

In his intercourse with men, Dave’s method in 
conversation or argument was more boisterous than 
logical : propounding questions, asserting facts, with 
or without knowledge of their correctness, affirming 
or denying the same without reference to anything 
other than his own preconceived ideas, and in a man- 
ner peculiarly his own. But he was never vicious. 
That element was not in his nature. To discover a 
man’s opinion and controvert it filled him with un- 
reasoning delight. From sheer force of lung power 
he had his adversary at his mercy, for he could roar 
the combined voices of any three men into silence. 
With naive simplicity he would scoff at indisputable 
facts, shiver proofs into atoms by the very force of 
sound, and laugh to scorn and helplessness one dar- 
ing to challenge him in debate. Yet he made no 
enemies, for his laugh was golden, and all knew the 
heart of the man. 

But there was another side to his nature, that all 
knew and to which none dared refer. Many were the 
bedsides of the sick and the dying that Dave had sat 
by; and no woman could be more gentle, no voice, 
no touch, more tender than his. An appeal for 


ROARING DAVES FAINT HEART, 


41 


aid always found in Dave a ready ear and a quick 
hand. He had been imposed upon — those who have 
not been are a thief's equal with a thief's discern- 
ment — but he laughed the louder at these imposi- 
tions, and gave, when he had to give, with the grace 
of one who receives a favor. He would stand abuse 
— the abuse which good nature invites — until the 
uncautious challenged his tolerance, and self-respect 
defied the virtue of restraint. It was at these mo- 
ments that he shone as a man among men. A pecu- 
liar expression about the eyes, a lowering of the 
voice — that was all. But to those who knew him — 
and every one for miles around knew Roaring Dave 
— it was a signal that but few cared to see, and none 
disregarded. His courage was unquestioned. His 
prowess had often done duty as a theme for the most 
extravagant tales ; but no man could say that Dave 
had ever raised his hand against a human being. 

He crossed the street and seated himself on the 
wooden platform in front of the store. 

‘‘Th' Squire bin roun' ter night?" he asked. 

‘‘No," answered Dan — Big Dan, he was called; 
no one bothered himself about any other name, if he 
had one; “he'll be over fer his mail pretty soon. 
'Tain't time fer him yet. He doesn't come over 
from his office more'n he kin help. Ther's th' wear 
an' tear to shoe leather, an' th' Squire'd figger that 


42 


THE FOOL. 


up at th’ end of th’ year, an’ it would amount to 
quite a considerable sum. An’ yer see,” he continued 
after a slight pause, ‘‘th’ Squire couldn’t stand th’ 
expense. He ’lows fer one pair of boots every three 
years; and he’s got ter use some judgment how he 
uses ’em.” 

Big Dan’s attempt at sarcasm was not lost upon 
his hearer. With the feeling that prompted the allu- 
sion to the Squire’s penuriousness, Dave was in en- 
tire sympathy. However, someone other than him- 
self had advanced the remark which, as ridiculous 
as it seemed, he knew to be thoroughly in keeping 
with the Squire’s parsimonious ideas of the many 
ways that money might be saved. But Big Dan’s 
assertion must not go unchallenged. 

'‘Ho,” roared Dave. 

The sound was like the first pufif of an engine 
starting a heavy freight. It rang up and down the 
street and announced that Dave was in town ; and 
the answering smile on the faces of the loungers 
within the store, and of those in the gathering gloom 
without, was in response to the voice — for they all 
knew it. Scorn, derision, contempt were in that 
sound; which was followed by a succession like in 
power, but varying from a high pitch to a deep, 
resonant, melodious baritone. Dan braced himself 
for what was coming. 


ROARING DAVES FAINT HEART. 


43 


‘‘Ho, ho,’’ the voice stopped abruptly. “You lazy 
duffers loaf ’round here, an’ when yer compelled ter 
work ter get something ter eat, yer work, an’ you 
bet yer don’t work ’til yer hev ter. That’s generally 
when old man Davis won’t trust yer fer no more gro- 
ceries. An’ ef yer hev anything left, it goes fer ter- 
baker, er rum, er what’s a dern sight worse. Then 
yer’ll kick when yer see a man like th’ Squire, who 
saved his money an’ invested it ” 

Dave paused to charge his lungs with the night 
air, and Dan, watching for the break in the torrent 
of words to interpose an objection, found his 
opportunity. 

“Now, Davie, I’ve heard yer say that the 
Squire ” 

Dave hitched nearer to the speaker, and the unfin- 
ished sentence met the fate of all assertions made by 
those who measured their logic with the derisive 
blast that now drowned Dan’s words. 

“Of course yer have ! I’ve told yer time an’ agin 
that it’s yer own fault thet yer ain’t got anything. 
It’s yer damned laziness !” 

Like a disconsolate spirit in the gloom, that 
now enveloped all things. Squire Dixon White stood 
before the two men. His approach had been noise- 
less. The faint gleam of light from the kerosene 
lamp, struggling through the dirt-begrimed win- 


44 


THE FOOL. 


dows of the store, upon his wizened, saffron-yellow 
face, afforded the first glimpse of him. 

In appearance, Dixon White was, or soon would 
be, of another world. But people had said that for 
the past twenty years. He was more than sixty 
years of age, and under a hundred pounds in weight. 
His skin seemed turned to parchment, and almost 
cracked when he moved. From the color and expres- 
sion of his face, both his liver and his heart had 
long since dried up, and ceased to perform the func- 
tions which Nature intended. For years, his thin, 
silky, fine hair had never been defiled by a barber’s 
touch, and he allowed it to grow, until it fell in pain- 
ful scarcity upon the collar of his coat. In color it 
was as yellow as his face — what a woman would 
term a ‘‘perfect match.” Little ferret eyes — steel blue 
— shone from out their saffron setting — their color 
protesting almost audibly that they did not belong 
there; but they were as sharp as diamond points. 
His face was long, narrow, and beardless. His form 
was bent, and so slight that it seemed you could 
punch your finger through it. When he walked, his 
head was always in advance of his feet; and he 
nipped along, his legs like wooden staves that were 
bolted too tightly at the knee. At one time he had 
been a lawyer, but, he asserted, that was before law 
became one of the trades — it was then a profession. 


ROARING DAVES FAINT HEART, 


45 


He had long ceased active practice. His profession 
now was to practice usury, and wring as high a rate 
of interest from his customers as the circumstances 
of the case would admit. 

He sorrowed with those who must bury their 
dead, and, to prove the genuineness of his sympathy, 
charged them only one per cent, per month for such 
loan as they could secure. On some occasions, it is 
asserted on undoubted authority, he could command 
a few tears. It was noted, however, that such evi- 
dence of sorrow was manifest only when he consid- 
ered the security offered insufficient. To those who 
tendered such, he could give only sympathy. Un- 
feeling people claimed that the tears were for the fail- 
ure of security, while others believed them to be 
evidence of genuine grief for the departed. When a 
loan, however, was necessary to the tuning of mar- 
riage bells, the Squire seemed to enter into the festive 
spirit of the occasion, and would mirthfully consent 
to be a party to the loan, which he would gladly ad- 
vance for a trifle of three per cent, per month. And 
thus he lived, alone with the joy he derived from 
misfortune — childless, loveless and unloved. 

As he stood before the two men, against a back- 
ground of darkness, the yellow lamp-light on his 
yellow-white face, which looked like a crumpled 
sheet of paper stained by age, his thin, bloodless 


46 


THE FOOL. 


lips, like a crease in an old parchment, tightly com- 
pressed; his small, keen blue eyes seeming to peer 
through holes in a mask — he looked what he was, 
uncanny, and a thing to be despised. 

‘‘Didn’t I hear you speak my name, Davie, em?” 
he squeaked, “or was it you, Dan, em? Was it 
you ?” 

His ferret eyes danced, and he turned his head 
from one to the other of the two men. He uttered 
the syllable, “em,” with his mouth closed, and inter- 
jected it between every part of a sentence. 

When excited he could say little else, and he re- 
ceived appeals for money, or the abuse which was 
often heaped upon him, with the same complacency, 
falling back upon the one syllable uttered behind his 
closed teeth, in every tone of the chromatic scale — 
the sound, of necessity, being forced through his 
thin, beak-like nose. 

“Yes,” said Dave, half sadly. He was thinking 
of the errand that brought him to the village. “We 
were talking about you.” 

“Em. You were talking about me. Em. You 
were. Em? Well, what were you saying, em? 
What were you saying, em?” 

Big Dan, knowing the Squire’s weakness for 
gossip, when he was the subject of the remark, 
headed off Dave’s reply with : 


ROARING DAVES FAINT HEART, 


47 


‘'I was trying to tell Dave that it's a pity you 
didn't die, as yer wer' goin' ter leave me some of yer 
hard-earned money." 

^'You were?" squeaked the voice in the semi-dark- 
ness. ‘'Em! You were? Em!" 

“Ho !" roared Dave, turning fiercely on Dan, who 
was chuckling with demoniac glee at the Squire. 
The old man's anger set his bony little frame in 
motion, like a wire-strung automaton that is blown 
by the wind. 

“Ho!" roared Dave. “Dan, if there's one thing 
that yer hate wuss 'n' work, it's ter tell th' truth." 

“Wasn't yer a sayin' " began Dan. 

“No, I wusn't!" 

“Em!" piped the Squire, as the echo of Dave’s 
voice rolled into the darkness. 

“Well," Dan's voice carried conviction, the Squire 
believed him, “ef yer'd a given me a chance ter get a 
word in edgeways, that's what I would hev said." 

“Em! I believe it. Em! Davie's not like you. 
Davie works. Em !" 

With the gait of a wooden doll, the Squire set 
himself in motion, and mounted the three steps to 
the store, bestowing a parting “Em" of commisera- 
tion on the chuckling Dan. 

“Coin’ over to th' office soon?" asked Dave of 


48 


THE FOOL. 


the figure disappearing in the doorway. “Want ter 
see yer/’ 

“Right away, Davie, right away, em 

“Yer dern fool!” said Dave, turning on Dan, who 
was unconscious of having done more than to rile 
the Squire, which he never neglected to do when 
opportunity presented. “G!ot the old man stirred 
up, and IVe some business with him.” 

“You?” said Dan, incredulously, “the only man 
thet’ll ever have business with Dixon White, except 
to borrow money, or pay interest at the rate of three 
per month, is the undertaker. What th’ devil hev 
you to do with old grab-penny?” 

This was a long speech for Dave to allow without 
interruption. Dan realized it. Dave had heard only 
the latter part of it. He answered : 

“When you prove ter me, ter my satisfaction, that 
it’s eny of your damn business, perhaps Fll tell yer !” 

A roar of laughter from within the store was in 
response to the last remark. It was followed by a 
voice : 

“Better quit, Dan.” 

“Ho !” roared back Dave. 

The Squire’s squeaky boots and voice interrupted : 

“Goin’ right to the office, Davie, em ? Gettin’ late, 
gettin’ late!” 

In danger of being trodden under foot by the 


ROARING DAVES FAINT HEART. 


49 


Stalwart fisherman, the Squire nipped along the 
sidewalk some distance in advance of his companion. 
Neither spoke until they had entered the office of the 
money-lender. 

Dust, a close, musty smell, and an ill-trimmed 
kerosene lamp, first attracted notice. After one 
had accustomed himself to the surroundings, 
within the radius of a sickly light, he noted 
a pine book-case, stained a dirty dull brown, in 
which were a half hundred or more books, whose 
dust-begrimed leaves had not been turned in a de- 
cade. On top of the case were heaped bundles of 
legal documents, bound with common twine, in what 
seemed like studied disorder. A few chairs, scat- 
tered about on the bare floor, and a desk, littered 
with papers and strewn with the accumulation of 
years of slovenly habits, filled one corner of the small 
room. A cloth-covered lounge, with springs like 
dragon’s teeth protruding through the faded and 
torn covering, occupied another corner of the room, 
inviting discomfort. On the walls were cheap prints 
of the more noted sea conflicts of the Civil War. A 
crude colored view of San Francisco in the early 
’50s, when ‘'Nob Hill” was a barren waste, and 
Market Street a sand desert, completed the effort 
for artistic adornment. The room looked — to the 
minutest particle of dust — as though an artist had 


THE FOOL. 


50 

designed it, as a setting for its withered, bloodless 
owner. 

The Squire seated himself at his desk and opened 
the negotiations. 

‘‘Em,’’ he chirped. His eyes blinked at the hand- 
some face and sturdy form of the man standing, 
with an easy grace, in the center of the room, utterly 
unconscious that Nature, in a mad moment, had ex- 
hausted her riches in endowing him with the wealth 
of her masterly handiwork. 

“Got ter hev three hundred and fifty. Squire.” 

It was Dave’s method of getting at business. The 
words seemed to stick to his tongue ; and fear — the 
sensation was new to him — nearly choked his 
utterance. 

“Em !” The tone was one of surprise. The blink- 
ing eyes shining from the depths of the chair never 
left Dave’s face. The form, snail-like, shrivelled up 
and seemed to shrink within itself. “Em, (medita- 
tion) em! (caution)” A pause. Then: “A lot of 
money, Davie, money’s very hard. Rates are high.” 

Diplomacy was not in Dave’s nature. Guileless in 
business matters — almost to simplicity — he did not 
realize that the Squire’s remark heralded an inten- 
tion of driving a sharp bargain. Yet Dave knew him 
to be a Shylock. The fisherman, however, was in no 
humor to parley. He came to the point at once, in 


ROARING DAVES FAINT HEART. 


5 ^ 


a manner that made the withered heap in the chair 
squirm, and in a voice which rolled through the open 
window like the blast of a foghorn. 

''Damn your hard money and your high rates! 
What do I know about ’em? There’s a first mort- 
gage of five hundred on the place that the bank holds. 
The farm is worth fifteen hundred dollars. I want 
three fifty. I’ll give yer a second mortgage, and if 
that ain’t security enough, my boat’s worth four 
hundred — yer kin hev that, too.” 

At the mention of the boat — the best of its kind 
on the immediate coast — a faded smile struggled to 
the pinched face, but died among the wrinkles. The 
lifeless features resumed their mask-like expression. 

"Em!” came the answer from the depths of the 
chair. There was a silence. Dave shifted about un- 
easily; not so the faded blue eyes that were fixed, 
upon him. The fisherman’s patience — never very 
elastic in dealing with the Squire brand of men — 
was being exercised to a point that lent color to his 
face and power to his lungs. 

"Why — in — hell — don’t yer say somethin’, and 
not sit ther’ like a dried up summer squash !” 

"Em !” The bony hand resting on the chair moved 
slowly, and two claw-like fingers were placed over 
the mouth which opened, with apparent difficulty, to 
emit a succession of dry, cackling sounds. When he 


52 


THE FOOL. 


wished to gain time, the Squire’s cough always 
played an important role in business transactions. 
“Em, a lot of money, Davie. Property runs down, 
depreciates. Boats sink. Em, let me see. Money’s 
very dear. Must get three per cent, per month. 
Three per cent.” 

Dave was not a mathematician, neither was his 
knowledge of business profound ; but he grasped the 
Squire’s terms instantly; and he laughed. The 
Squire squirmed like a snake that feels its tail under 
foot ; for there were elements in Dave’s laugh other 
than mirth. In the eyes that glowered upon the 
heap in the chair, there was no laughter. The sound, 
which rolled around the room in deepening volume, 
seemed to bring the first semblance of animation into 
the withered face; and if color could dissipate its 
saffron hue, there was evidence — very faint— of 
blood in the withered cheek. 

“Em, Davie, don’t get excited! You make me 
nervous. Em.” 

“Nervous!” Dave’s expression was not reassur- 
ing. “Yer haven’t a nerve in yer derned carcass. 
They dried up years ago, with your conscience. 

Three per cent, a month. Look here. Squire ” 

Dave paused for lack of words. 

The old man straightened himself and sat on the 
edge of the chair. With all Dave’s bluster, the 


ROARING DAVE’S FAINT HEART. 


53 


Squire knew that he must have the money. He also 
knew the purpose for which it was to be used; for 
Nan's intention of going to New York was the topic 
of gossip in the village. He was as certain of the 
interest he could exact, as he was satisfied that the 
security was good. 

“Em, very well," he piped — his voice could be 
likened to the note of a toy whistle being sounded on 
one stop — “if you don't want it, Davie, all right. 
Em!" 

Dave's chin fell upon his breast. He could see 
Nan moving about the house, where, already, she 
had begun preparations for her journey. The old 
man's beady eyes watched the countenance before 
him. He saw thereon, with instinct trained to meas- 
ure disaster, the struggle, the surrender. He 
chuckled inwardly — already he was counting his 
profits. 

Dave directed to the chair a calm face and a soft 
voice. He was in a mood that meant no trifling. 

“Draw up the mortgage," he said, quietly. “I 
want the money to-night." 

“Em, short notice, Davie, short notice." 

“Drat yer prattle ! Write out the mortgage." 

The Squire recognized the tone. He did not care 
to argue further. Dave handed him the deeds of 


54 


THE FOOL, 


the property to copy from; signed the mortgage 
when ready ; received the money, and was gone. 

Once outside, the night air cooled his flushed face, 
also the rage that filled him. But trouble with Dave 
was transitory. Like the healthy constitution that 
throws off the germ of disease, in Dave, the roots of 
trouble could find no lodgment, and died for lack of 
cultivation and encouragement. With the march of 
years, whose hand had left the touch of frost upon 
his hair, his heart had refused to keep pace ; and with 
the warmth of boyhood, and the courage of youth, he 
defied the world's sorrows, and laughed trouble into 
an early grave. He sighed softly, and addressed 
the night generally : 

‘I'd like ter take that derned skunk and shake his 
dry bones, until his legs and arms rattled off one at 
a time. He's as shrivelled as a pea pod that hung on 
the vine all Summer." 

He was passing the meadow, and the chorus that 
had assailed him at sundown, was being repeated, 
fortissimo. Brazen were the tones that filled the 
night; numberless the piping voices that rolled into 
one ponderous note. But above all the shrilling, that 
makes the heart glad, not twenty feet away came the 
voice of the early evening, in unmistakable tones 
of kindly concern. 

“Yer'd better go home, yer’d better go home.'* 


ROARING DAVES FAINT HEART. 


55 


'I’m a goin’ home, yer yellow-bellied balloon,” 
yelled Dave, now really angered at the unsolicited 
advice, "and if ther’s any virtue in number five shot, 
to-morrer night I’ll fill yer derned hide full of ’em.” 
This blood-thirsty resolve died as suddenly as it was 
formed, for at that instant he turned his eyes in the 
direction of Betty’s home. A cheery light gleamed 
brightly through the uncurtained window, lighting 
up Betty’s features as she sat at a cabinet organ 
playing; also it set aflame the heart of the listener. 

Dave leaned against the fence, where, over the 
tops of the flovrering shrubs in the garden before the 
house, he could see Betty through the open window 
— the softened light, through a tinted shade, falling 
upon her features in a creamy flood. The gloating 
eyes of the listener rested on the beauty of the arched 
neck and delicately tinted cheek. The white, daint- 
ily moulded hands of the performer brought out the 
simple melody with such expression, that the words, 
to their last syllable, could be distinguished : 

"Nearer my God to Thee, Nearer to Thee,” pealed 
the organ, dying into a soft tremolo. 

"Isn’t she beautiful!” The words were wrung 
from him unconsciously. He started, confused at 
the sound of his own voice. But none heard save the 
violets and lilies blooming at his feet — laggards, 


56 


THE FOOL. 


whose petals were not yet closed in slumber, drink- 
ing in the beauty of the night. 

“Nearer my God to Thee,” sang the organ. 

“Nearer my love to thee,” said Dave, softly, 
changing the words to voice the fulness in his heart. 
The organ stopped to its softest tone, continued 
playing. 

“And to think,” continued the voice in the night, 
“to think that I dare love her. Me! Why, I’m old 
enough to be her father! But if I wer’ twenty an’ 
not forty. I’d get educated, an’ dressed up, an’ pol- 
ished up, and then, maybe — maybe — oh, get out ! yer 
derned fool! What are yer talkin’ about! Yer’ll 
never be twenty agin, nor forty, neither ! But I love 
her just the same. Ther’s no harm in thet, ’n’ she’ll 
never know.” 

“Nearer my God to Thee,” fell the supplicating 
tones on the night air. 

There was a pause — the music ceased. Betty 
turned her face full to the open window, her hand 
resting upon the lamp bracket beside the organ. 

“She’s as lovely as the morning when th’ sun 
kisses the dew from them flowers ther’, and as grace- 
ful as one of them lilies that’s lordin’ it over the 
pansies. Why couldn’t I have been born fit for 
her?” 

The night breezes sighed in pity at the guileless 


ROARING DAVES FAINT HEART. 


57 


heart of the man. They had kissed the cheek of her, 
who, rising and taking the lamp in her hand, was 
preparing to leave the room — on her virgin lips 
trembling the unspoken words that welled from her 
heart — ‘‘dear Dave.’’ 

But he did not know, and, as Betty passed out of 
the room, the door closed upon the light and the 
loveliness within. The fisherman was alone with his 
thoughts and the voices of Nature. 

“Good night, Betty dear,” he said softly, “good 
night.” 

He turned and walked slowly homeward, and the 
wind bore the words uttered as softly as an angel’s 
whisper in benediction for a soul that is saved — 
“good night, Betty — good night — good night.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE FOOL AND PONT. 

/ ^Tont, come here, I want to talk to you.'’ 

The Fool sat before the fire in the living room of 
his home. His dog, a setter of unusual size, lay on a 
rug beneath the table. He rose at The Fool's com- 
mand, and laid his long, pointed nose upon 
his master's knee. A few dying embers in 
the open fireplace, before which was a Dutch 
oven, sputtered intermittently, and little curled 
rings of smoke, with languid grace, drifted up the 
opening in the capacious chimney. A movable iron 
grate, resting on andirons over the burning coals at 
the right of the open fireplace, together with 
the dishes on the table, bore evidence of a late 
repast. The Fool's indifference to regular hours for 
eating and sleeping conformed to his general scheme 
of living — to follow no fixed rules but the dictates 
of his own will and desire. When hungry he ate; 
when exhaustion overcame him he slept. He turned 
night into day, and day into night, with consummate 
ease, and with the keen delight of one who is his 


THE FOOL AND PONT. 


59 


own master. He owed no one — either money or al- 
legiance. He seemed always to possess funds — much 
to the astonishment of his little world, which con- 
cerned itself more about that one fact, than ever did 
The Fool. He did not talk, which was wealth of the 
rarest kind; and what he thought, no man knew. 
He had one friend, one confidant, to whom he opened 
the innermost recesses of his heart — his dog, who 
now looked up into his face, with dark hazel, lumin- 
ously clear eyes, that told of love and perfect trust 
beyond the power of human mind to measure. 

''Pont,” said The Fool, "how much can you un- 
derstand?” 

For answer Pont pushed his head forward on his 
master's knee. The Fool laid his hand caressingly 
upon it and patted it gently. 

"I believe you do understand,” he said, "I believe 
you do.” A pause. Then : "Pm going to have a 
cup of tea, Pont, after which I want to talk to you.” 

It was not the same voice that had discussed Nan’s 
departure with Dave. It was the calm, self-confident 
tone of a man who is master of himself, and knows 
what he wishes to say — the cultured voice of one 
refined by nature, and trained by much book learn- 
ing. His voice was in as marked contrast to the 
flat, lifeless tones that he assumed with people in 
his daily intercourse, as was the mask of The Fool, 


6o 


THE FOOL. 


which he had dropped at the threshold of his home, 
to the intellectual — though feeble and effeminate — 
features, which now radiated with expression. The 
sound of his voice, one look at his mobile counte- 
nance, and The Fool's secret was a secret no longer 
— but the dog alone knew, and none understood but 
The Fool and his Maker. The why and the where- 
fore are not for us to ask — his life, and the future, 
will answer. The Fool is not alone in his dual life 
— that all men know, and most men will admit. To 
one. The Fool offered himself for judgment, and on 
that one practiced no fraud — his dog — and therein 
lay a virtue which is not universal. 

From a pot, that was half buried in the warm 
ashes in the open fireplace, The Fool poured a cup 
of tea, and sipped it slowly. The flavor, undefiled 
by cream or sugar, he evidently enjoyed. The 
dog, drinking his dish of tea, which had been 
placed on the floor before the fire, regarded his mas- 
ter with limpid-eyed, well-bred approval. Pont was 
fond of tea, as he was of other luxuries in which dog 
and master daily indulged, share and share alike. 

A look at their surroundings will enlighten us 
somewhat as to the character of the strange occu- 
pants of the room ; for — as far as this story is con- 
fined to the home of The Fool, as well as in other 


THE FOOL AND PONT, 


6i 


scenes and circumstances far remote — the dog is to 
be considered. 

The room was in the rear of the house — its length 
being twice and one-half greater than its width. Its 
two windows opened upon the garden and orchard, 
and a stretch of sandy soil backed by scrub oak and 
stunted pine. The view from the windows was not 
inviting; and, though The Fool often stood before 
them, and peered through the small glass panes, of 
the sweep of country that the eye covered, he saw 
nothing. At such moments his mind was dwelling 
on a world that he knew only as he found it between 
book-covers^ — a world which lay far and far beyond 
where the eye could reach. Common wooden chairs 
to the number of four or five, and of a pattern as old 
as the house itself, were scattered about the room; 
and a deal table, on which were the supper dishes, 
stood between the two windows directly opposite the 
fireplace. The dishes were washed when required — 
the time being regulated by the promptings of hun- 
ger; which fact proved The Fool to be an average 
man. A door at the end of the room opened into a 
small pantry, on the shelves of which was stored an 
abundance of food — space not thus occupied being 
used for storage purposes. Above the fireplace was 
a long mantel-shelf — littered with every conceivable 
article that might be required for comfort or neces- 


62 


THE FOOL. 


sity in the life of the owner. Tobacco and pipes of 
all varieties were mixed promiscuously with shoe 
awls, hammers, half of a shoemaker’s kit, row-locks, 
fish hooks and lines, small garden implements, and a 
hundred and one articles placed there on the slightest 
chance that sometime they might be needed. But 
the disorder, far from being offensive, lent a unique 
charm to the general appearance of the room ; for the 
mantel and its contents had the distinction of origi- 
nality. At the end of the room opposite the pantry, 
a door opened into a small sleeping room, the blinds 
of which, as well as those of the pantry windows, 
were closed. The two remaining objects — a clock 
and a book-case, stood out apart and distinct from 
the homely and ill-cared-for furnishings and sur- 
roundings. One was a highly polished, artistically 
decorated seven-foot splendor, with severely plain, 
white face, adorned only by Roman numerals, and 
two hands that had chased each other about the dial 
for over a century. With the pride of a Grande 
Dame of the Court of Louis XIV., it stood in a far 
corner. The other was encased in a frame of quaint 
richness — its handsomely bound contents, in a suc- 
cession of tiers, as well set up as the columns of one 
of the well-drilled companies of the Coldstream 
Guards — its appearance reminding one of a wealthy, 
well-groomed banker. The two, the clock and the 


THE FOOL AND PONT. 


63 


b(X)k-case, seemed entirely out of keeping with their 
ill-kept and homely surroundings, and as much out 
of place as two diamonds of brilliant hue in a setting 
of pebble stone. 

These two rooms were the home of The Fool ; for 
the rest of the house was given over to draughty 
emptiness, musty smells, and uncanny legends. 

The tea finished, the dog and the man exchanged 
looks of mutual approval, and of appreciation of 
the tea. 

“Good, isn’t it, Pont?” said The Fool. 

The dog wagged his tail approvingly, endorsing 
his master’s judgment. 

“Pont,” said The Fool, “in an evil moment I fell 
in love with a woman. For many insane years I be- 
stowed a love Upon her that should have been thine, 
good Pont, for thou art worthy of it. I doubt if the 
woman was ; even though it were but the love of a 
fool.” 

Many confidences had taught the dog when an 
expression of his opinion was desired; and with 
cocked ears, and head turned to one side, he listened 
in discreet silence. His master continued: 

“The world says that thy master is a fool. The 
world, in its judgment, is often wrong, more often 
than right; in thy master’s case it does not err. 


64 


THE FOOL. 


Good dog, all men but kings are fools; else there 
would be no kings. That may be a fool’s proverb, 
but it is mostly true. Pont, let’s smoke! Smoke is 
soothing for the nerves, and is good for the soul. 
The soul, good dog, is that after condition of the 
body that is like the elements of air — indeterminate. 
Where is the tobacco? Ah!” 

He filled a delicately colored pipe and, puffing 
rings of smoke into the air, remained silent for some 
moments. 

“Thy master,” he continued, “gave to another the 
love that should have been thine, and to-night, 
Pont, in a sane hour, that love was crushed like a 
worm trodden under foot. To-night, good dog, thy 
master, thy foolish master, tasted the bitterness 
when doubt becomes a certainty, and faith dies upon 
the altar of a dead love. And now it’s a charred and 
blackened thing, not good to think of, and, ah, 
God!” he exclaimed, rising from his seat, “how I 
did love — I, The Fool.” 

The laugh that followed was not good to hear, 
and, as he paced the floor with nervous strides, his 
features twitched convulsively. The clock, with 
measured, stately stroke, rang the hour of midnight, 
and set a chime of bells softly ringing, conjuring 
visions of darkened cathedrals, vestured monks and 
midnight masses. The soft night air soughed 


THE FOOL AND PONT, 


6S 


through the open window and around the corner 
of the house in mournful cadences. The wind had 
shifted to the southeast, and dark clouds — rain- 
laden — had shut in the brilliant starlight. A loose 
blind, swung to and fro by the increasing wind, 
squeaked disconsolately, and banged against the side 
of the house. The dog, lying close beside the fire, 
fixed his eyes on his master’s face, but his ear was 
trained on the crevice beneath the door that opened 
into the small, narrow hallway in the front of the 
house, from which a flight of stairs led to the floor 
above. 

Still The Fool walked from one end of the room 
to the other, with the light, measured stride, and the 
graceful, easy swing of a caged tigress. Gradually 
he regained his composure and spoke — dejection in 
his looks, bitterness in his tone. 

‘Tate damned me with a fool’s visage. As a child 
I was pitied, because I was mentally deficient; as a 
boy, with the face of a weakling, I was looked upon 
as worthy of nothing better than ridicule; for had 
I not a face that gave me my name? As a man, I 
learned to despise myself ; and contempt for the 
world grew within me. Ah, the torture ! ten thou- 
sand hells could give no more ! Why then, should I 
have loved? Who base enough to love The Fool, on 
whose face. Nature, in her wrath, had visited the 


66 


THE FOOL. 


curse of unknown generations ; and, giving him the 
face of a fool, left his heart and mind untouched, 
that the pain, like an arrow quivering in the flesh, 
might be the more exquisite, and a gentle reminder 
that he had been chosen for the sacrifice/' 

His laugh rang through the rooms above, and 
started an army of echoes. The sound of a meas- 
ured footfall, swathed in soft wadding, muffled yet 
distinct, came from the unfinished portion of the attic 
at the head of the stairs. It paused at the top of the 
landing, and the stairs creaked audibly as the step 
seemed to descend to the floor below. At the land- 
ing in the lower hall the sound ceased, and the wind's 
fitful complaining filled the interval. 

The dog had not moved from his position. His 
eyes followed his master, but his alert ear had lost 
none of the strange noises. The footfall re- 
mounted the stairs, the measured pace was resumed 
over their heads, and the ridge of hair on the dog's 
back Stood almost upright. But Pont made no other 
manifestations of having heard. The sounds were 
not new to either the dog or his master. 

‘‘Pont," said The Fool, noting the dog's attitude 
of fear, “be a good dog. The wind, aided by our 
imagination, is playing pranks upon us." The 
speaker, however, believed what he said only in part. 

The dog came to his master and, pushing his nose 


THE FOOL AND PONT, 


67 


into the hand that was held out to him, turned his 
head toward the door, and remained motionless. The 
increasing wind drove the rain, which was now fall- 
ing, through the open window. The Fool hastily 
closed it, and, seating himself beside the table, placed 
writing materials upon it. 

‘Tont,’’ he said, ‘Sve will write. We will write 
an ode to a dead love, or shall we call it a Fool’s 
Passion? Can a Fool love, Pont? That’s the ques- 
tion. Why not? After all, love is but a species of 
madness. Then, if it’s madness to love, who but a 
fool should know it in its completeness. Pont, thy 
master was a fool; but the sanity with which the 
world refused to credit him, was born to-night. 
Henceforth, we shall be sane in all things, but 
memory.” 

He picked up a pen and began to write, while the 
raindrops, in musical splashes, beat against the win- 
dow panes. The silver tones of the clock struck the 
half hour ; one o’clock chimed on the night stillness ; 
again the half hour; two o’clock, three o’clock, and 
still the slight, bent figure at the table wrote on and 
on. Occasionally, he would rise from his cramped 
position, and, going to the book-case, select a book 
for reference — from long intimacy with the con- 
tents of the shelves, knowing instantly where to lay 
his hand upon the volume he desired. Page after 


68 


THE FOOL. 


page was written, to be destroyed as not to his satis- 
faction. The dog, lying before the fire, paid no 
further attention to the uncanny creakings, that 
echoed in the emptiness of the rooms above. He 
opened his eyes only when his master moved, ad- 
dressed to him some word of endearment, or read 
aloud a line he had written which seemed to please 
him. 

The night wore on. The Fool opened the win- 
dow, and the damp, earth-scented morning air filled 
the room. The clouds were breaking into dishevelled 
fragments, and, through the rifts, a few stars 
struggled in momentary brilliancy to dispel the pall- 
like gloom. 

‘Tont,’' spoke The Fool, while he paused from 
his labor, ''there is a world beyond the line where 
the treetops touch the sky, of which we know but 
little. I believe it to be mostly bad, and wholly bit- 
ter; but sometime we shall go and see. You shall 
go with me, Pont, far and far away — where people 
hive together, where passion consumes the heart of 
men, and altars of gold rise from the ruin of count- 
less souls. There will we go, and we shall see, 
though it be our undoing, and the death of our peace 
of mind. Thou art fortunate, good Pont, in being a 
dog. The only truly happy human being is the man 
who doesn't know. Some one has said that knowl- 


THE FOOL AND PONT, 


69 


edge is wealth. That some one was wrong — it is the 
beginning of our disbelief in humankind. A hod- 
carrier, who appreciates his calling, who has the 
ability to shoulder his daily burden, and, incident- 
ally, his way through life, and the hardihood to live 
within his daily stipend, is the only truly happy 
man. Pont, it is time to smoke ; also for good dogs, 
who behave themselves, to be given a biscuit.’' 

The Fool lighted his pipe, and, between puffs of 
smoke, continued : 

‘‘The trouble is, good Pont, the average man is 
endowed with the desires of a prince, the ambition of 
a Caesar, but with the ability of a hod-carrier. He 
cannot be made to measure his own capacity, hence 
the average man is supremely unhappy, and, in lusty 
tones, damns the Fates for having conspired against 
him.” 

He seated himself at the table and resumed writ- 
ing, changing a word, or transposing a phrase, to 
suit his fancy and exact meaning. He read and re- 
read what he had reduced to a verse which covered 
less than half a sheet of paper, and scanned it criti- 
cally. With a sigh, he rose and paced the floor; 
then stood before the window. All evidence of the 
storm had passed, except the delicious smell of fresh- 
ness that hung upon the air. The stars, in a parting 
burst of brilliancy, were heralding the dawn, and the 


70 


THE FOOL. 


darkness that preceded its first gray shades was dis- 
solving before the light creeping above the eastern 
horizon. Nature was awakening from her sleep, and 
the awed hush of the new morning was stealing over 
the minds and senses of all living things. 

‘Tont,’’ he said softly, as though he feared to 
disturb the religious quiet that reigned, ‘ht is time 
for good dogs to be asleep — also men.” 


CHAPTER V. 


nan's departure. 

It was nine o’clock when The Fool awoke. Pont 
regulated his master’s hours of rising. The last 
stroke of the hour was still echoing when the cold 
nose of the dog sought his master’s cheek : — it was 
the customary signal. The Fool was on his feet in 
an instant, and slipped on his boots, which completed 
his dressing. He had slept in his clothing. A bath 
for the hands and face; an armful of wood and 
kindling thrown into the open fireplace; the touch 
of a match, and the coffee was soon boiling. On the 
floor, where it had been thrust by Dave under the 
crevice of the door. The Fool found a note. ‘'Come 
over to the house,” he read. It was Nan’s hand- 
writing, with Dave’s name signed at the end. The 
Fool smiled. “Poor DaVie,” he said, “writing is 
not in his line. He wants to be comforted — what 
will his life be like when she is gone? Pont,” he 
said, addressing the dog, after he had placed some 
rolls on the table, “how would eine Stiickchen 
Fleische mit Brod do for my dog’s breakfast?” 


72 


THE FOOL. 


Pont hung his head. German he detested. His 
master laughed. ‘‘Well, say un peu de boeuf roti 
avec un grand morceau de pain? How will that do 
for my Font’s breakfast?” 

The dog voiced his delight in short, decisive 
barks, and danced his acceptance with energetic 
grace. 

''Bien!'' smiled his master, “you are a good Yan- 
kee dog, with a predilection for French. Pont Car- 
net Mason. A good name! The sharer of thy 
master’s sorrows and secrets — joys, he has none; 
and the possessor of commonsense away and be- 
yond that of the average man.” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Pont in urgent tones. Pont 
enjoyed confidences only on a full stomach. 

“Patience,” said his master, “the coffee is not quite 
drawn.” 

“But the meat,” protested Pont. 

His master understood, and placed the dish of 
meat on the floor. 

After they had finished eating they started for 
Dave’s — the dog bounding along the road with de- 
light; his master deep in meditation. 

The glory of a Spring morning was in the air, 
which seemed to thrill and pulsate, setting the heart 
beating with an over-fulness of joy. But The Fool’s 
mind was bent on other matter. The dog, filled with 


NAN^S DEPARTURE. 


73 


the pleasure of being abroad, was leaping and 
bounding along the sandy road in a frenzy of de- 
light, but unheeded by his master, whose thoughts 
were of the inmates of the house they were nearing. 

“'Twill go hard with Davie," he said in a mono- 
tone. Much alone, he had fallen into the habit of 
speaking his thoughts aloud. “She hasn't sufficient 
character to realize what Dave will suffer, nor tact 
enough to ease the loneliness she will leave behind. 
And yet, I once loved her. Eh, faith! Yes, and 
not so long ago. The fire is quenched, though the 
ashes are still warm; but there is nothing left to 
kindle the flame anew. No smouldering spark, 
nothing. It is dead, dead." 

The dog bounded across the road. 

“Pont, come here." The dog instantly obeyed. 
“Why do you worry that bird?" The voice had the 
sting of reproach; the dog hung his head; and his 
master smiled at the woe-begone attitude of the cul- 
prit. “Add not to the world's woes — even to those 
of a bird," he said. “Man and beast and bird are 
now staggering under more than they can bear. 
Yearly the birds forget their cares for they are close 
to Nature. She changes her garments every spring, 
and to the old ones which she discards cling all her 
aches and ills. Man is never free from his — it's 
the same old coat, patched and scarred and varnished 


74 


THE FOOL. 


over. Each has his mission in life. The birds^ 
is to sing our cares away ; yours is not to chase them, 
but to listen to your master's vagaries ; and mine — 
ha! mine is to forget that I am The Fool." 

Nan was busy putting the finishing touches to a 
new dress, and did not see The Fool pass the wind- 
ow. He kept on his way to the boat-house, where 
he knew he would find Dave. The fisherman was at 
work mending an old sail; but his hands moved 
listlessly, for neither his mind nor his heart was on 
his work. He looked up as The Fool entered. 

‘'Come in, Lemmie. Did yer think that somethin' 
had happened because I wanted yer ter come over? 
Nothin' of the kind. Jest one of my freaks, that's all. 
D'yer understand?" 

The Fool smiled and nodded his head. He under- 
stood — far better than Dave believed; but The 
Fool's face was never the barometer of his feelings. 

“Yer see, Lemmie, Nannie starts the day after ter- 
morrer an' — why, damn it! it'll kind er go hard 
fer a while. She's never been away, only fer a 
week's trip ter Boston, an' ther's no knowin' when 
she'll get back from New York. That's a big 
city, Lemmie, an' it's a long way from here; an', 
yer see, she ain't mine after all; but I think jest as 
much of her as ef she wer'. Perhaps a hundred times 


NAN^S DEPARTURE, 


75 


more. It’ll be lonesome, Lem, it’ll be mighty lone- 
some.” 

There was a quaver in the voice, and a moistening 
in the eyes which looked through the open window 
in the direction of the house. The Fool remained 
silent. He could offer neither advice nor comfort ; 
and he shuddered as he thought of the love and the 
life that the man before him had given, and of what 
might be his return. 

Nan was calling through the doorway of the 
house, and Dave dropped his work and went to her. 

‘"Why,” queried The Fool, as he saw the fisher- 
man disappear into the house, ‘‘why does 'Heaven 
select those most worthy for its hardest blow ? What 
havoc with human hearts has woman wrought — in- 
gratitude, deception, dishonor. Woman’s wiles have 
changed the courses of nations, and blackened the 
souls of men. For a smile, or a word, many a man 
has gone through the depths of hell, to be rewarded 
by the knife-thrust of dishonor. Poor Davie ! With 
the heart of a child. Would that I could receive the 
blow. Fate is aiming at you, for when it strikes ” 

The voices of Nan and Dave entering the boat- 
house interrupted him. Nan’s laugh forced a 
smile from the fisherman, but brought to the face of 
The Fool only his habitual expression of unconcern. 

“Lem,” she laughed — she was an actress by na- 


76 


THE FOOL, 


ture — ^‘Fve been telling Uncle Dave that it's simply 
a matter of following the cook book, and he'll never 
go hungry." 

She rattled on in a bantering tone, regardless that 
her words were as daggers to Dave; unconscious 
that the steely gray eyes of The Fool were fixed, in 
a cold stare, on her smiling face. The echo of her 
words of the past night was still ringing in his ears. 
Surface indications did not appeal to Nan. She was 
thinking of New York, and of the intervening hours, 
that moved with a sluggard's pace, before her de- 
parture. 

‘‘Lem, you'll come over often to see Uncle Dave?" 

“Of course," he answered, then, behind clenched 
teeth, “good God! has this woman a heart?" 

Pont, having finished his visit to Dave's hound, 
bounded into the boat-house; his good nature, until 
suppressed by his master, effervescing with the aban- 
don of a well-charged siphon. 

“Isn't he lovely!" Nan regarded him with covet- 
ous eyes. “How I wish he belonged to Uncle Dave. 
Lem, all actresses own a dog. You ought to give 
Pont to me." 

“Ho," roared Dave, abashed at the suggestion. 
“He'd as soon give yer his eyes, an' I'd as soon think 
of askin' him for 'em. Nannie, if enything 'd hap- 
pen ter diet dog — well, I ain’t prepared ter say what 


NAN'S DEPARTURE. 


77 


would happen ter Lemmie. Give yer Pont ! Why, 
he’s th’ light of Lem’s life; an’ away from him 
Pont wouldn’t live a week. Don’t I know what thet 
dog thinks of Lem ? Ha !” 

The Fool was not by nature sentimental, but in 
the eyes he turned upon Dave there was a cu- 
rious expression that did not escape the fisherman. 

Nan, declaring her intention of going to the vil- 
lage, and of calling at Betty’s on her way home, was 
about to return to the house. Upon hearing Betty’s 
name, Dave looked up quickly. 

‘‘Air yer goin’?” he asked. “I’ve got ter go over 
ter th’ village ter see th’ Squire. I’ll call fer yer at 
Betty’s, on my way home.” 

His attempt to appear unconcerned was ludicrous. 
The Fool’s smile was unnoticed. Dave truly be- 
lieved his art of dissembling was profound. It 
was touching, if not deep. At the mention of Bet- 
ty’s name a bugler might as well have trumpeted to 
the world what his heart said; for his face pro- 
claimed it as plainly. The Fool knew every shifting 
expression on his friend’s features, to the lifting of 
an eyelid : — knew of his love for Betty, that had 
been the buoy to which he had clung in the years of 
care which had been his. To The Fool, the naive 
simplicity of the man was amusing; but it welded 
their friendship all the more firmly. 


78 


THE FOOL. 


The two men were alone. “Lem/' said Dave, 
after an interval of silence, “had ter raise some 
money on th' place. Got it from th' Squire. Might 
as well tell yer; every one in town'll know it from 
th' records. Then, I'd told yer, anyhow." 

The Fool betrayed the interest which the knowl- 
edge awakened. It was not often that his face dis- 
closed his thoughts ; rarer still that he was taken off 
his guard, for his self-command was almost com- 
plete; but at the reference to the Squire he started 
perceptibly. 

“The Squire," he echoed. 

He knew the money lender and his methods. Hav- 
ing had many proofs of Dave's incapacity for busi- 
ness, he was satisfied that, if the Squire had Dave 
in his debt, the fisherman would never be able to free 
himself. Because of his limited means, and his pre- 
carious income, Dave had, with difficulty, only re- 
cently been able to meet the demands Nan made 
upon him. 

“Yes," said Dave, half sadly. Then he forgot all 
else but the remembrance of the withered, trembling 
form of the Squire, buried in his chair. 

“Ha, ha, ha, Lem," Dave roared, “yer shud hev 
seen 'im! I nearly frightened th' dern life out of 
him. Th' shriveled-up old — d'yer know, Lemmie, 
when th' old man dies, ther' won’t be enough of 'im 


NAN^S DEPARTURE. 


79 


fer th’ devil's imps to fight over! Nothin' but 
bones! But if ther's a vacancy at th' cashier's 
counter where he's goin', th' Squire's dead sure ter 
git th' job. But he'll own th' bank afore he's been 
ther' long, or my name's not Roaring Dave." 

‘‘Sorry that you were obliged to go to the 
Squire," said The Fool. 

“So* am I," laughed Dave. “Three per cent, per 
month, Lem. Hed ter come ter it — Nan hed ter 
hev th' money. P'rhaps she'll be able ter earn it, an' 
kin pay it back." 

Dave was bending over his work; The Fool 
smiled bitterly, but did not reply. A silence followed 
until broken by Dave. 

“Fm goin' down ter th' village, Lem. Go 'long?" 

“No, Davie, not to-day:" 

The men walked together to the house, and there 
parted. 

Meanwhile, in Betty's home. Nan, among other 
things, was saying : 

“You can't understand, Betty. Of course, I love 
Uncle Dave, but he can't expect me to pass the re- 
mainder of my life in this out-of-the-way place; be- 
sides, it isn't as though I was his own daughter." 

“It is the same," Betty replied. There was re- 
sentment in her tone — ^her self-control was being 
taxed to its utmost. The color of her cheeks and the 


So 


THE FOOL, 


angry flash in her eyes betrayed her. But to Nan, 
these indications of Betty’s feelings passed unno- 
ticed. ‘‘Think how your Uncle Dave has worked for 
you! You have had everything, Nan, that you could 
wish for. Think of his loneliness — his solitary life. 
You don’t realize how he loves you. I would no 
more think of leaving him as you are about 
to do ” 

“Dear me!” Nan exclaimed, petulantly. “I have 
thought ! You know it has always been my intention 
to adopt the stage for a living. He can get along 
very nicely alone. It’s no use arguing the matter 
now — it’s all settled.” 

“Nannie,” came the voice in unguarded tones, “if 
you realized the greatness of his love, the worth of 
his good heart, you would reconsider your deter- 
mination even now.” 

“Good gracious, Betty, any one might imagine 
that you were in love with him yourself. Wouldn’t 
it be funny if you were?” 

Betty bent her head over some light needle work. 
Nan’s bantering tone of unconcern drove the blood 
to the tips of her delicate ears. Fearing to trust her 
voice, she did not immediately reply. They had 
grown up together, and no one had a truer measure 
of Nan’s frivolous, thoughtless nature than her com- 
panion, who now said, dispassionately: 


NAN’S DEPARTURE. 


8i 


‘‘Fm sorry, Nan — sorry for your Uncle Dave, and 
that you are going away. There are other walks in 
life which a woman can adorn with greater credit 
to herself, and the world be better for her living in 
it, than the stage. When do you start, Nannie?'' 

‘‘Day after to-morrow. It seems an age waiting !" 
Then, gleefully: “But I've a thousand and one 
things to do — packing, dresses to be overhauled — of 
course, I shall get some new ones in New York: 
what I've been wearing will never do. Can't you 
come over to the house and help me ? That's a dear 
girl, do.” 

“Yes, if you wish it." 

Nan had forgotten that Dave was to call for her, 
and, with her companion, was about to start for 
home when he arrived. He met them at the front 
gate, and interrogated Nan with his eyes. 

“Betty is coming home with us. Uncle Dave. She's 
going to help me put my things in order." The re- 
mark caused Dave's glance to rest upon the fair face 
of the subject of Nan's information. Betty's face 
was calm. She sought his eyes in a fearless, straight- 
forward look; but the eyes of the fisherman trav- 
eled across her features with a glance that he dared, 
but momentarily, to rest upon her face. Its effect 
upon him, however, was manifested in a way as in- 
explicable as were his emotions conflicting. He grew 


82 


THE FOOL, 


red in the face and hot all over; then had recourse 
to his customary and never-failing method of easing 
his feelings, he roared : 

‘‘Ho! I thought you wer’ goin’ to wait fer me?'' 

Betty smiled, and Nan tried to explain, but she 
could not, truthfully, without acknowledging she 
had forgotten that he had told her he would call ; so 
she hid behind obscure allusions to packing, and re- 
quiring Betty's assistance to try on a new waist. 
Dave received her excuses with his customary good 
nature — without question or criticism. 

They walked on together. Nan between Betty and 
the fisherman, who seemed to have suddenly lost his 
power of speech. Nan, however, rattled on aimless- 
ly, without soliciting or expecting a response, and 
with as little regard for her listeners as there was 
point to what she said. Dave was devoutly thank- 
ful, for, if he could not shine before Betty for wit or 
wisdom, it gave him the opportunity to lag behind 
a pace — casting sidelong glances at the beauty of her 
finely-moulded neck, — compare her to a statue he 
had seen in Boston, with the arms broken off close 
to the body, but which people said was a copy of the 
most beauitul statue in the world — speculating, 
meantime, as to what he would give to hold the hand 
that hung at her side for five short minutes. Then, 
surreptitiously holding his big, brown, hairy paw 


NAN^S DEPARTURE. 83 

where he could compare it with the pink-tinted love- 
liness of the one he longed to hold, he shuddered. 

The momentary silence was broken by a sigh, that 
sounded like the breath of an approaching storm. 
The two girls looked up at Dave to discover the 
cause ; and his attempt to laugh away his confusion 
resolved into his customary roar. This did not, by 
any means, put him at his ease ; and he was devoutly 
glad they were entering the yard of his home, 
where he could seek the solitude of the boat-house. 

Betty's smiling remark, as she was about to enter 
the house, again set his heart in a flutter. Gaining 
the seclusion of the workshop, he leaned against the 
door, and, to the not far-distant sea, soliloquized 
upon the beauty of an earthly being, whose face and 
eyes scintillated with the combined loveliness of all 
known heavenly bodies. And for one whole hour he 
reveled in the joy of those who live and love; forgot 
his coming loneliness. Squire Dixon White and his 
three per cent, per month, and was inordinately, in- 
sanely happy. 

The Fool, after leaving Dave, did not go directly 
home. Not being in a peaceful mood, he struck in- 
to a bypath that skirted a succession of small ponds, 
and through a wooded stretch of country studded 
with stunted oak, birch and pine. An hour's walk 
brought him to the rolling sand dunes, which ter- 


84 


THE FOOL. 


minated in a bluff. Before him, lapping the pebble- 
strewn shore, lay the mighty Atlantic. 

Descending the incline, he seated himself in the 
shade made by the crest of the bluff. Pont, having 
run himself into a heat, lay panting beside him, his 
blood-red tongue hanging from his mouth. He re- 
garded his master with a questioning eye, demand- 
ing if the halt assured an extended rest, or if it were 
only tentative, but The Fool was not in a communi- 
cative mood. They were as entirely alone as if they 
were on an island in the South Seas. The dog, as 
well as his master, loved the quiet, and the soft 
balmy heat that radiated from the sun-kissed sands. 
He rolled his eyes up expectantly at his master, for 
he did not like the prolonged silence. The air, by its 
faintest breath, refused to indicate the quarter 
whence it came, as though fearing to disturb the 
slumbering giant whose pulsation was scarcely dis- 
cernible on the long stretch of sandy beach — for the 
sea slept. Turmoil there was, but it was in the heart 
and the brain of The Fool. Pont noted evidence of 
it in the knitted brows and compressed lips, and was 
unhappy. The Fool, casting a pebble into the water 
at the foot of the steep incline, spoke musingly : 

‘'You monster! Basking in the siunlight, like 
some huge, coiled reptile, in whose hidden fangs 
lurks loathsome death. You sleep, and lure to your 


NAN^S DEPARTURE. 


35 


bosom ten thousand craft, and ten times ten thou- 
sand souls, with promises of gain that tempt the 
vain cupidity of Man. You wake! and woo with 
smiles and heaving bosom those who are wedded to 
your charms, until, with the coquetry of your vary- 
ing moods, you hold them enslaved, and as bonds- 
men to your will. You speak ! Your voice, tuned to 
the soft, languid tones of the pliant lover, when the 
reluctant, scent-laden breeze of summer, soft as a 
dove's complaining, kisses you to repose — can at 
your will, swell with the roar of a cub-bereft lioness 
when the shrieking winds of Winter, whipping you 
to frenzy, thunder along the coast; until, in your 
madness to appease Amphitrite, you offer as a sacri- 
fice those whom you have beguiled to their undoing. 
Vain, inconstant, soulless ocean! Pont" — to the 
dog — ''why does the sea resemble woman?" 

The dog characteristically answered that the ques- 
tion was not for him — that he could not tell. 

'‘No? It's beyond you ! But you are not alone in 
your lack of knowledge, good Pont. Most people 
would answer as you have; yet the sea and woman 
are alike — they both lack faith, Pont, faith; and 
both are endowed with an exiguity of soul. I once 
had faith in woman, but that was ages ago ; though 
the world has recorded but one revolution on the 
sun’s dial. Pont, we will write a book on faith, and 


86 


THE FOOL. 


it shall transcend all wit. Aye, even the wit of fools. 
Wise men have passed away, their thoughts, which 
would have illumined this vapid world in after ages, 
unspoken, unwritten. Fools have filled volumes — 
countless as the sands at our feet — containing not 
one sentence, one phrase, one word worthy to live. 
The world does not like a disagreeable truth, unless 
it is sugar-coated like a pill, or disguised like poor 
beef served a la mode — then they swallow it as a rep- 
tile disposes of its salivated victim. 

'Tont, there is a great master who writes, and he 
paints life-truths as he finds them — naked — without 
the drapery which false modesty demands, or in 
which mouldy usage would have them clothed. His 
truths are not always nice to the eye or the over- 
sensitive ear, and some of them reek with the taint 
of decayed morals and the passions that the world 
would hide. He paints life with the daring of a 
genius, and the detail, touch and finish of a Meisson- 
nier. The truths that flow from his pen, unadorned, 
living, breathing, life-pulsating truths, without even 
the tinsel of dissembling, portray life as it exists — 
even as in the sea at our feet, is reflected the blue 
of the sky above our heads ; but the world does not 
want the truth. And there are those, self-constituted 
judges, with an ass’s voice and wisdom, who carp 
and bray because he dares hold the mirror before 


NAN’S DEPARTURE. 


87 


them, wherein they may catch a glimpse of their de- 
formed souls. Good dog, if a man wants to know 
the baseness of the world, let him look into his own 
heart. Bah! We are all actors, most of us poor 
ones. The natural trend of Nature is to build, to 
expand, to grow; man’s perversity prompts him to 
pull down, to level, to destroy. Genius is a shining 
mark.” 

Font’s mouth was firmly closed, and his breathing 
was inaudible. He turned his head to one side, and 
considered his master’s face — more than what he had 
listened to. Ordinarily he enjoyed conversation, 
and always confidences — dogs’ likes are those of 
Man in many ways; but he also was considering 
lunch, and the memory of a generous-sized shin- 
bone, in the pantry at home, filled him with pleasur- 
able longing. He thought it time to express his 
views, which he did with a soft growl, ending in an 
interrogation. 

''Yes,” said The Fool, rising, "the sun is throw- 
ing the shadows of the cliff far over the water. 
Come, it is time to go.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE F00L'’S DECEPTION. 

Nan had been gone a week. For Dave it had 
been a week of aimless wandering about the house 
and grounds, until he almost detested the gloomy 
emptiness of his home ; and he remained, as much as 
possible, out of doors. His meals were irregular; 
tobacco had lost its taste; and he was morose 
and ill-tempered by turns. His working hours were 
prolonged far into the night, and he returned to his 
home only at bed-time. He disliked the lamplight, 
for the few of Nan’s belongings that were scattered 
around reminded him that he was alone, and he 
roamed about, handling such articles of hers as she 
had left, speculating when he should receive a letter 
from her. He made many needless trips to the vil- 
lage, adroitly planning his visits at such hours as he 
knew he would be most likely to encounter Betty. 
Nan’s future was a topic of common interest between 
them, and the letter that he was expecting gave him 
an excuse for seeing Betty daily. And thus the sor- 


THE FOOUS DECEPTION. 89 

row that enveloped his life opened the way to many 
meetings with the woman he loved. 

The end of the week came, also Nan’s tardy letter. 
Dave received the letter at night, and a new difficulty 
presented. By the light of a lamp he tried to spell 
out the words. He could not. Here, he thought, 
was an opportunity to ask Betty’s aid. No, he 
would not humiliate himself. Lem? It was too late 
to call on The Fool to read the letter for him; be- 
sides he respected his desire for privacy, and never 
imposed upon him. 

Dave’s early education had been mainly acquired 
before the mast of a coasting vessel, and in varying 
experiences from cabin-boy to mate. It is a good 
school to develop the body, but not one in which 
to train the mind. He could scrawl his name, after 
a fashion, and read the newspaper slowly and with 
painful effort; but to him, written words were as 
hieroglyphics. 

A slip of blank paper, which, in the early morn- 
ing, Dave had slipped under The Fool’s door, was 
the signal that the fisherman wished to see him, and 
when he arrived he found Dave, who had 
passed an impatient and sleepless night, was 
waiting for him. The Fool read the letter, which 
was short, formal in tone, and contained but brief 
reference to her future. A shade of disappointment 


90 


THE FOOL. 


settled upon the face of the fisherman.. No mention 
of the home she had left; no word of love, of sym- 
pathy, of regret ; nothing but the commonplaces that 
are not dictated by the heart. The Fool finished the 
letter and remained silent. 

''Read it again, Lemmie,” said Dave. 

The Fool read the letter again, and, as he proceed- 
ed, his voice almost betrayed his resentment. 

"Of course,’’ said Dave, "she ain’t got settled yet; 
an’ she can’t write much ’til she has somethin’ ter 
write about. Lemmie, yer know I ain’t much with 
th’ pen, an I’ll hev ter git yer ter answer th’ letter 
fer me. Ef yer hevn’t got anythin’ ter do, yer might 
answer it now.” 

The Fool wrote as the fisherman dictated, fill- 
ing page after page with words that sprung from 
Dave’s heart; whose voice went up and down, and 
would stop with a jar and a cough, until he steadied 
it with an effort. 

That same day the letter was delivered to the post, 
and, on his way from the village, Dave boldly en- 
tered the garden in front of Betty’s home. The 
importance of the news he bore gave courage 
to his heart, and firmness to his step ; and his return 
from the village had been filled with joyful anticipa- 
tion. But again Fate seemed to conspire against 
him — Chentington was just about to take his leave, 


THE FOOUS DECEPTION. 


91 


and Betty had accompanied him to the door. Since 
Nan’s departure he had been assiduous in his atten- 
tions and, though Betty’s manner toward him was 
such as to discourage a continuance of his visits, he 
called almost daily, unabashed by her coldness, and 
with the calm, self-sufficiency of one who will not be 
rebuffed. Dave, raving inwardly, stayed but a few 
minutes and, after informing Betty of the contents 
of Nan’s letter, took his leave. 

^'Ef she loves him, ’twould be nothin’ more’n nat- 
ural,” he muttered, ''what hev you got ter say about 
it, Dave Kurran, anyhow? Yer don’t suppose she 
cares anythin’ fer you, do yer? Yer derned fool!” 
Nevertheless, the demon of jealousy filled him, and 
he swore mighty oaths that, sooner than see her 
married to Chentington, he would wrench him limb 
from limb; and in lusty tones he called upon all 
creation to listen to his vow. There were none to 
hear him, however, only the hound, who was 
chained in the backyard ; and he howled, possibly in 
derision, or perhaps with joy at his master’s return. 

Another week went by, with only one happening 
worthy of record — Chentington had disappeared. 
No one knew just when he went; and, apart 
from those who, by his expenditures, benefited 
financially, none cared. The Fall season was the 
time of year that he usually selected for a prolonged 


92 


THE FOOL. 


stay ; and his departure caused no unusual comment. 
Another event to ruffle the surface of Dave's daily 
life, which was beginning to move in its customary 
groove, was a second letter from Nan. 

Dave w^as recovering his usual spirits and good^ 
nature. His voice was again heard with joy, and his 
old light-heartedness was returning. Chentington 
was gone; Betty's interest in Nan's future was 
marked — she seemed never to tire of discussing 
Nan's prospects of success when Dave called; and 
he never tired of calling. What they would have 
talked of when together, had not good fortune come 
to the fisherman's relief, and given them a subject of 
common interest to discuss, can only be conjectured, 
for the big, luminous eyes that looked into 
those of the fisherman, seemed to paralyze his power 
of speech; and only when he fled to hide his con- 
fusion, did he become most eloquent. Then he 
could discourse on love with the abandon of a mod- 
ern Romeo. 

The Fool held Nan's second letter in his hand, and 
before reading it aloud, glanced over the con- 
tents. A slight color stole into his cheeks, and, re- 
marking that there were one or two words that he 
could not decipher, he read it again. It was short, 
in the same tone as the previous letter, and evidenced 
as little feeling as her first communication. How 


THE FOOUS DECEPTION. 


93 


could he read it — heartless in its terseness and lack 
of all sentiment — to the man, who, in the letter he 
had written for him, had poured out his heart to her 
in one long cry of fatherly devotion. He could not, 
he would not read the lifeless, parrot-like words, in 
which even the semblance of gratitude was lacking. 
He began the letter slowly, as if in doubt as to its 
contents; yet on the second reading he could have 
repeated it from memory. He read the words — 
some of them — but, in an even monotone, he read 
others — even whole sentences not in the letter ; and 
a blush of guilty shame stole over his features for 
the fraud that he was practicing on the man before 
him, who, of all human beings, stood first in his 
affections. He laid the letter on the table, and in 
manifest confusion glanced quickly at the face of 
the fisherman, whose smile of pleasure was in an- 
swer to the words that had come from the pitying 
heart of The Fool — sentiments which had never 
dwelt foi a second's time in the heart of the writer 
whose letter he had just read. 

‘T didn't think ther' was so much in it,'^ said 
Dave, picking up the letter. 

‘'Do you wish me to answer it?" quickly inter- 
posed The Fool. 

“Yes, if yer will, Lemmie; yer damned good!" 

It was Dave's method of expressing gratitude. 


94 


THE FOOL. 


The words did not tend to soothe the conscience of 
the man who listened to them. His blood yet tingled 
at the sight of Nan’s letter, and Dave’s message of 
love in answer to it, did not appease him ; for it was 
the eloquence of language when the heart speaks, 
that even illiterate English had not the power to les- 
sen. The Fool, saying that he wished to copy the 
letter at home, and with the assurance that he would 
post it, picked up Nan’s letter and placed both in the 
pocket of his coat. He would not trust to chance — 
no one else should read the letter. 

He walked slowly homeward. He was alone, for 
Pont had been left behind. Though The Fool had 
seen little of the world, he was not without knowl- 
edge of its ways. He was a student. Books had 
not been his only means of acquiring knowledge, for 
Boston and New York daily papers found their way 
to his home, and furnished him with an insight of 
what was taking place outside his little world. He 
pondered Nan’s determination to adopt the stage 
for a livelihood. He knew her vacillating charac- 
ter. He was satisfied that it was the excitement, the 
glamor, the unreal side that had attracted her to the 
stage. It was not the desire to act for love of the 
art ; neither was she drawn to it as a means of gain- 
ing a livelihood. It was vanity and the craving for 
applause that moved her ; and it is this that presages 


THE FOOLS DECEPTION. 


95 


the death of effort, and courts failure. He knew 
that ultimate success in the vocation which she had 
chosen is attained by work, and that the aspirant is 
hemmed in and embarrassed by temptations, which 
only a strong will and a true love of the art can sur- 
mount; and that immeasurably above all other 
qualifications, and without which all natural gifts 
are as useless as a watch without a mainspring, is 
application — steady, laborious brain and nerve- 
racking work. Not one of these qualifications did 
he believe Nan possessed. 

When The Fool entered his home, he calmed 
Fonts manifestation of joy and set about copying 
Dave's letter. Not that it was at all necessary, but 
it occupied his mind and his time; and somehow, it 
made him feel as though the deception he had en- 
tered into was being lessened. 

‘Tont," he said between sentences, “never lie. 
It's the first lie that breeds twenty more to cover it 
up, and that takes a life-time of deception and con- 
stant vigilance to make it appear a truth. A lie is 
like a snake with a hundred heads — when you be- 
lieve you have them all under your heel, one of 
them squirms from under your foot. You attempt 
to crush the one that- confronts you and lo! the 
ninety-nine are looking you in the face." 

He continued writing in silence for a few minutes, 


96 


THE FOOL, 


then abruptly: ‘'What will this lead to? Nan's go- 
ing to New York will end in a tragedy. She will 
probably fail in her undertaking. She hasn't the 
talent, the wisdom or the wit; and then — will it be 
her life or Dave's — or worse? Chentington went 
within a week of her departure. Dave doesn't know ; 
doesn’t even suspect." 

He finished the letter and prepared his mid-day 
meal. 

“Pont, we will go to the village. I say we upon 
condition that my dog behaves gentlemanlywise, and 
doesn't chase birds." 

The dog promptly agreed, and they started leis- 
urely toward the village. Betty, under a large straw 
hat, whose shade only softened the color in her 
cheeks, giving to them the velvety softness of a jac- 
queminot rose, was in the garden in front of her 
home. She spoke to The Fool as he approached. 
Somehow, there was a feeling between the two, 
which had never been voiced, that they had 
an interest in common. Speech was unnecessary to 
seal the compact. It was the bridging of two minds 
over which Love was journeying. 

With a mutual friendly feeling, they considered 
themselves advocates of each other's interests. Betty 
had always regarded The Fool with respect and af- 


THE FOOLS DECEPTION. 


97 


fection, and, as he halted at the gate, his eyes an- 
swered the smile with which she greeted him. 

‘'Going to the village to post a letter for Dave,” 
he said. 

“To Nan?” she queried. 

“Yes. Her letter came last night. Seen Davie?” 

“No; he may go by to-day. Perhaps he'll call.” 

“Don’t believe he’ll have time.” The Fool smiled 
and regarded her quizzically. 

“I guess he will,” she laughed. “Poor Dave! He 
misses Nan very much. Lem, do you think her go- 
ing to New York wise?” 

“How can a fool judge what is wise?” 

“ ’Tis not always the wise who can judge a fool.” 

“Mebbe,” he rejoined. 

“Lem, I don’t like to hear you talk like that. It’s 
only a name the boys gave you.” 

The Fool laughed. “Here comes Davie,” he said, 
“he’ll tell you about Nan’s letter.” 

Betty looked quickly down the road. The color 
of the roses under the straw hat deepened. The 
Fool laughed merrily, and continued on his way to 
the village. He spoke softly : 

“Sweet womanhood. Virgin womanhood. Fair- 
est of all Nature’s handiwork. Why can you not 
always remain thus lovely ? Why mature, until, like 
over-ripe fruit, you take on a grossness which 


98 


\THE FOOL. 


strangles the beauty that is your charm? Could 
wisdom keep pace with your years, then might it be 
said that, in you. Divinity had found an abiding 
place. Once it did, but that was before wigs and 
powders, and the damnable devices to imitate youth, 
took possession of the years that should be wis- 
dom’s maturity. You would have a rose bloom twice 
in a season. The autumn foliage is more beautiful 
after being touched by the frost. Dyed garments 
are never better for changing their color. Content 
yourself with Nature, and attempt not to improve 
it. Pont, here comes one of the meanest men under 
the sun. Squire White. You may bark at him if 
you wish.” 

The Squire was seated in an open rig, driving an 
old sorrel. Pont growled, and the Squire pulled up 
before them. 

‘'Em! fine day,” squeaked the Squire. Though 
the day was warm and balmy, he wore a heavy 
winter coat. 

“How can it be a fine day when it rains ?” quoth 
The Fool. 

“Em. But it doesn’t rain. It’s a fine day. Em.” 

“Gracious Shylock, thou dost beg the question.” 

“Em. But the sun shines.” Then to humor him : 
“How then. Fool, can it be a fine day when it rains ?” 

“O, simple childhood that has twice come to thee 


THE FOOLS DECEPTION. 


99 


— after it clears off, of course. That's how it can 
be a fine day when it rains." 

‘‘Em ! Very good ! You are not such a Fool, after 
all!" 

“The sight of you lends me more wit." 

“He, he," chuckled the old man well pleased, “I 
didn't know you could talk. There's point in what 
you say, em." 

“So there is to a comet's tail. My mind is shoot- 
ing through space. You must have noticed it. Did 
you ever study the stars ?" 

“Em. Well, no. Can't say that I have." 

“Strange," mused The Fool, “yet, 'tis there 
ordained " 

“Yes," encouragingly acquiesced the Squire. 

“That you shall die. Have you made your will ?" 

The old man shivered. 

“Em. Get up, Bob," he chirped to the horse. 
The Fool laughed as the wagon rattled away. 

The letter was sent on its journey and Pont and 
his master returned home. . 

Weeks resolved into months. Spring was left be- 
hind and Summer brought with it many strangers to 
the little town. There was a holiday air abroad; 
but to those in whom we are interested, all seasons 

were alike — only as it affected their bodily comfort. 

LofC. 


lOO 


THE FOOL, 


Dave was still plodding along in his customary 
manner. Contentment had taken possession of him, 
and his voice could be heard in the land. If it were 
the barometer of his feelings, apparently there were 
few of life's joys that were not his; for his roar 
seemed to increase with the summer heat. He saw 
Betty daily, and as his love grew, so grew the fear 
within him ; and he reserved for the sea and solitude 
his confessions of love. 

The Fool called upon the fisherman often, but 
seldom went to the village. He disliked strangers, 
and his life seemed to be wrapt in its old-time soli- 
tude and mystery. 

It was early morning on a day in the last week 
of July when The Fool found on the floor a sum- 
mons from Dave. Several letters had come from 
Nan during the past two months. The Fool had 
continued his deception and, as the letters grew more 
and more formal, he had been forced to substitute 
productions of his own ; taking care that each should 
conform in length to -the one he was supposed to 
read. 

On arriving at Dave's he glanced at the letter. It 
was of more than customary length, and its contents 
were of unusual interest. It contained an appeal, 
almost an imperative demand for money. There was 
one other remarkable statement: she had changed 


V 


THE FOOUS DECEPTION, 


lOI 


her residence and, as she had not decided to remain 
permanently at her present abode, the letter contain- 
ing the money should be sent to the general delivery 
office. 

The Fool was acquainted with Dave’s financial 
condition ; he knew that Squire White’s demand for 
interest had recently been met only after extraor- 
dinary exertion on Dave’s part, and that it would 
not be possible for him to procure the money with- 
out great sacrifice. Such sacrifice he was satisfied 
the fisherman would make. The Fool was mentally 
reviewing the situation when Dave asked : 

‘‘What be thet she says about fifty dollars?” 
Nan had written the sum in numerals. It was then 
The Fool rejoiced that he had taken time to con- 
sider. He had intended omitting all reference to the 
money, for it had escaped him that Dave could read 
figures. 

“It’s in reference to her payment for tuition,” 
calmly answered The Fool. Deception had now 
become easy. 

“Them actor teachers are as bad as the Squire,” 
sighed Dave. 

The Fool read perhaps ten words in the letter 
that Nan had written. The fifty dollars he em- 
bodied in a statement of what she had paid for a 
month’s schooling. 


102 


THE FOOL, 


He left Dave in a contented frame of mind. The 
Fool was filled with disgust, as much on account of 
his own duplicity as for Nan’s lack of feeling. Re- 
turning home, he did little that day. Reading and 
writing he put aside; and Pont, from long experi- 
ence, noted the unusual behavior of his master and 
was unhappy. 

Toward evening he read the letter that Dave had 
dictated. 

'T must do it,” he said, ‘fit’s the only way out of 
it. Dave would raise the money somehow, and he 
is already hopelessly in debt.” 

Entering his sleeping room, he unlocked a drawer 
in an old oaken secretary, and, from a tin box, took 
a roll of bank bills. He placed fifty dollars in bills 
in the letter, sealed it, and put it in his pcchet. 

The sun had set, and the dusk of evening was 
gathering. A hush followed the day, which had 
been one of extreme heat, and most live things were 
content with the silence, and their voices were 
hushed. Nature seemed weary from the exhaustion 
of the day. Not so the crickets. It was just such a 
night as they delight in, and they split their little 
throats with joyous chirpings — glorying in the op- 
portunity to be heard. The katydids piped from 
bush and tree; and the full moon cautiously peeped 


THE FOOLS DECEPTION, 


103 


over the line of the eastern horizon, and, in bur- 
nished splendor, mounted into the cloudless sky. 

‘Tont,’’ said The Fool, after hours of silence, 
smoking and thinking, to which, it is needless to 
say, Pont obiected, ^'how would you like to go 
to New York?’’ 

Going anywhere filled Pont with uncontrollable 
delight. He yelped boisterously, and danced intri- 
cate steps about his master. 

'T can’t leave you behind. No, I won’t.” A long 
pause. ‘'She wishes to hide her address. Em, what 
is her object? She’s hardly worth the trouble, but 
there is Dave to consider. Pont, dog, there’s some- 
thing rotten in Denmark. This is Wednesday — we 
could be in New York a week from to-day. Good 
Pont, we shall be.” 


CHAPTER VIL 


nan's hopeless love. 

After Nan's arrival in New York, she began to 
realize that the individual counts for little in a great 
city. Disappointment followed disappointment. 
She was met on all sides by the fact that she was one 
in thousands seeking admission to the stage. At 
home she had been flattered by the praise of friendly 
critics, until she had come to believe that she pos- 
sessed talent in no mean degree, and that she had 
but to knock at the door of the temple of fame, to be 
admitted to its fullest glories. For her, there was 
to be no waiting at the portals — no discourage- 
ments, heartaches, repeated trials and possible fail- 
ures. She was not prepared for the callousness of 
the individual, or the complete neglect of the crowd. 
She learned only too soon that it was an unequal 
struggle, without assistance or encouragement, and 
with slight hope of success. From childhood she 
had been accustomed to throw the burden of care 
and annoyance upon the shoulders of others. Her 
wants and desires had been anticipated ; and a shield 
had intervened between her and the buffets of an un- 


NAN'S HOPELESS LOVE, 105 

thinking world. Great, then, was the shock when 
she came to realize that her beauty and talent, which 
shone with meteoric brilliancy in her own home, 
dwindled to an insignificant glimmering among the 
myriad clamoring for recognition. 

It seemed to her that the whole world had con- 
spired to balk her efforts. She fretted under many 
difficulties; and her constantly increasing hours of 
study seemed to be productive only of headache and 
heartache. She had begun studying under a private 
tutor, with the belief that a short course was all the 
training she would require. She was not pre- 
pared for the drudgery, the elementary technique, 
the days and nights of nerve and brain-racking 
work. At first she rebelled. What she was required 
to do, was not acting — it was child's play, and she 
would have none of it. 

She sought an engagement at the leading thea- 
tres. She had the face and the figure, but positions 
where these were the only requirements she refused. 
So she struggled on. But the work and the hard- 
ship were telling on her nerves. Her eyes had lost 
their lustre, her cheeks their fresh color; and alto- 
gether life was far from what Chentington had 
painted. 

He had visited Nan regularly since his return to 
the city. At first, she had declined going out with 


io6 


THE FOOL. 


him; but she finally accepted his invitations and 
accompanied him to the theatre. The strain caused 
by her work called for relaxation. Music halls 
were included in the list of places of amusement, 
and it was not long before the race course alone 
seemed to furnish the mental stimulant that she 
craved. 

It was here she learned the source of Chent- 
ington’s income. He constantly bet on the races and 
seldom lost. Nor was his gambling confined to the 
races. It was not long before she discovered that 
cards furnished another means whereby he was en- 
abled to keep up his extravagant style of living. She 
met his friends and intimates. These she did not 
like and frankly told him so. She was not yet free 
from the atmosphere of her old home, and it took 
time before she could accustom herself to the easy 
morals, and the indifference to fixed social rules 
that confronted her. There were times when she 
almost wavered in her purpose — when she seriously 
contemplated giving up her stage career; but she 
had not the courage to return home and acknowl- 
edge herself a failure. 

She was in one of these moods when Chentington, 
after knocking, entered her room. 

''Well,’’ he asked, "what progress to-day?” 

"None,” she answered dejectedly. "Or rather,” 







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“ WHEN, PRAY, DID YOU COME TO THE CONCLUSION THAT I WAS A 

FAILURE ? ” 




Page 107 


NAN^S HOPELESS LOVE. 


107 


she continued, ''the same. More study, more work, 
and no prospect ahead. Fm tired and discouraged.’^ 

"The outlook isn’t very brilliant,” he answered. 
There was a note of irritation in his voice that she 
was quick to discern. She looked up quickly. 

"What!” she exclaimed, with her old-time laugh, 
"it is possible? You were among the first to discover 
my uncommon talent. Are you also the first to 
acknowledge that you were mistaken? Dear me! 
You men haven’t the first particle of originality, 
much less consistency. When, pray, did you come 
to the conclusion that I was a failure?” 

Her tone was bantering, but her eyes betrayed 
that she was deeply moved. 

"I didn’t say you were a failure,” he said. 

"You haven’t yet; but you believe it. A man 
and a child are two beings who cannot convincingly 
mis-state a fact. You should learn to dissemble. 
You may save yourself the trouble of further denial, 
for I learned long ago that you consider my efforts 
as so much wasted time. Isn’t it so?” 

"Well,” he said, with some irritation, "you have 
only yourself to blame. This high moral standard 
you affect is all very well for church people, and 
church affairs; but the profession you have chosen 
hasn’t any use for it. Morals are all good enough 
in their way, but don’t mix them with things theat- 


io8 


THE FOOL. 


rical. You have had opportunities to cultivate the 
right sort of people, but you simply turn them down. 
This Sunday School role doesn't go in this town, 
and the sooner you discover it the better for your 
future, and the nearer you will be to getting on the 
inside. You haven't any use for my friends, and 
they are in a position — if you would be sensible and 
cultivate their acquaintance — to give you a lift." 

'‘On that one point," she rejoined lightly, "we 
agree. Your friends are your friends. Good. But 
I don't care to seek an advancement through those 
channels. Remember, I don't presume to criticize 
your choice of acquaintance, but — no! I will ac- 
knowledge failure before I surrender principles that 
are worth a thousand-fold more than the return 
bought at the cost of their sacrifice." 

"With the principles you speak of," he retorted, 
"you can neither buy bread, nor can actresses be 
made with them. With church folk, they have a 
heavenly, if not a market value; but the boards of 
the stage are not perceptibly worn by feet shod in 
saintly resolutions. Galateas in stage life should be 
relegated, in the words of the late lamented Hamlet, 
'to a nunnery' — Saphos have a value — even on the 
stage." 

The blood mounted to Nan's cheeks. This was 
but one of the many times that Chentington had 


NAN^S HOPELESS LOVE. 


109 


told her, though in dif¥erent language, that he had 
been mistaken in her — that failure had yet to break 
down the social and religious beliefs to which she 
clung with a tenacity that was heroic. Her 
eyes betrayed the sorrow and humiliation she felt. 

'‘My dear Chentington, when the time comes, and 
in all probability it will come, that I return to my 
Uncle Dave, I want to be able, without a blush of 
shame, to kiss him on the lips ; to meet his eyes, and 
have him see in my own no guilty acknowledgment 
that I am not the same as when I left him. I may 
not have talent, true; but he will care nothing for 
that ; and I will bring back with me what he prized 
more than all he has ever given me — a name. Al- 
ready my failure has been productive of more than 
success could ever give — it has taught me to love 
him as he deserves, more, it has proven to me my 
own unworthiness. No,” her voice again bantering, 
"my friend, upon mature consideration, I will 
choose the straight and narrow path — the other is 
too easily accessible; besides, in its fetid brilliancy, 
my beauty might fade. In truth,” she laughed, 
"what is left will soon have no market value.” 

He flushed and was about to reply, but her laugh 
interrupted. He did not remain long. 

When he had gone. Nan sat down and turned 
over in her mind her prospects of success, and what 


no 


THE FOOL. 


the future had to offer. She would not abandon her 
intention. She would continue studying and trust 
to her efforts and opportunity to win recognition. 

There was another reason why she wished to suc- 
ceed. At first she had learned to lean upon Chent- 
ington. Then their almost daily intercourse was 
productive of a warmer feeling than friendship. In 
a way, he had become necessary to her being — and 
even while she noted his waning interest, though she 
struggled to convince herself that her feelings to- 
ward him were unchanged, she was not successful. 
She tried to persuade herself that she lived for her 
art, and her hope of success, and attempted to laugh 
away the idea of love. Again and again she would 
try to blind herself to the truth, but here, too, failure 
was in waiting. She had learned his true character ; 
knew his habits, his associates ; but the knowledge 
had no weight against her growing passion. She 
felt that her love would be her undoing — that she 
was rearing a foundation upon which her life’s hap- 
piness would be wrecked; and with each day grew 
a presentiment that her love would be the death of 
all effort in her chosen career. Yet she loved. And, 
as the weeks and months went by, the conviction 
grew that the man who had first talked to her of 
love, had become indifferent. Thus her life was 
filled with the struggle and the heart burnings of an 


NAN^S HOPELESS LOVE, 


111 


existence that was becoming unbearable. And Dave, 
by the sea, dreamed dreams of 4:he fame that Nan 
would win ; and talked of the time when she would 
become a star among stars. 

Midsummer came and with it a change in Chent- 
ington’s fortune. 

The goddess of chance is fickle, whimsical, and, 
at times, without apparent cause, turns her back 
upon those who woo her. In some unaccountable 
manner horses that should have won, were hope- 
lessly distanced. Chentington’s luck at cards for- 
sook him ; and altogether good fortune passed him 
by without even a consoling smile of regret at their 
parting. The law of compensation interposed, and 
midsummer found him, as he expressed it, ^‘broke 
and dead cleaned out.’' This condition did not 
bring to the surface the better part of his nature, if 
there were any better part to it; but it furnished 
him with an opportunity to become coarse in his 
treatment of Nan. On general principles a success- 
ful gambler will treat a woman with an off-hand, 
generous, though effusive display of decency. When 
he loses, she is, in his eyes, somehow to blame, and 
he accordingly proceeds to make life as unbearable 
for her as circumstances will admit, and the instincts 
of the brute in him are developed. Chentington, be- 
ing a gentleman gambler, adopted methods in keep- 


II2 


{THE FOOL. 


ing with his standing and manner of living ; and, as 
far as he could presume on their friendship, suc- 
ceeded in making Nan thoroughly miserable — for 
she loved him. 

His daily life was not what would be termed 
beatific. From Sherry’s to cheap table d’hotes, and 
from cabs to surface cars or walking, are transi- 
tions not calculated to soothe the temper of one who 
has been disturbed by a series of losses. Chenting- 
ton, not possessing a philosophical mind, fretted, 
and came to believe himself very much aggrieved. 
With a gambler’s superstition, he settled upon Nan 
as the cause of his ill-luck, and was not slow to act 
upon this belief. 

His infatuation for her had long since given place 
to indifference. This was followed by neglect ; and 
when the reverses in his fortune came, he found the 
excuse for which he had waited. His visits ceased, 
and she was forced to the realization that he consid- 
ered her apparent failure as sufficient cause to ter- 
minate their friendly intercourse. 

Few can realize the power a great love or a great 
sorrow has to change the disposition, the heart, and 
the mind. Great emotions lead to extremes — either 
for good or for bad. In the former case they be- 
come a cleansing process; in the latter, oblivion. 
Nan’s love, however unworthy its object, had given 


NAN^S HOPELESS LOVE. 




birth to instincts which were dormant within her; 
and the awakening came with the knowledge that 
the man she loved had tired of her. She had time to 
think, and, in her position, thought was not condu- 
cive to peace of mind. Perhaps the voices of those 
from her far-away home rang through her brain ; or 
the sound of the sea through the long summer days ; 
or before her eyes arose the yearning look of her 
Uncle Dave — waiting, always waiting for her re- 
turn. Who can tell? Tears, bitter tears; but they 
could not wash away the past. How well she knew 
it. And through days and nights the words kept 
ringing in her ears, tantalizing, maddening — ‘'too 
late,” and yet again, “too late.” Could pride have 
whipped her self-respect into life, it would have 
given her momentary courage, strength, desire to 
live. But all other emotions were smothered 
by a great, all-absorbing, idolatrous love — a love 
which she now realized was as hopeless as her 
future. 

Those who reach a state of mind in which they 
believe their existence is not essential to the happi- 
ness of a living human being, in which the heart 
craves for solitude, and they shrink from intercourse 
with their kind, can find loneliness, in its complete- 
ness, in a great city. In the rush and roar, the mad 
joys, the sorrows, the endless pursuits after Man’s 


114 


THE FOOL. 


desires, the individual is lost, and is as entirely alone 
as though he were in a wilderness. 

Nan wished for solitude. Friends and acquaint- 
ances she had none. Those whom she had met with 
Chentington were of the class whose friendships are 
born daily, and die like the fizz on champagne — 
their memory not outlasting the effect of the 
wine. She thought again of the career that she had 
chosen, but her courage died with the thought, and 
she gave herself up to a life of longing, and a linger- 
ing hope that Chentington would return. Visions 
of her home came to her in the still night, after the 
roar of the city had died into a distant murmur ; but 
these longings were drowned in tears. Sleep came 
only in the gray dawn, and the days of heat and of 
heartache dragged on. She had grown thin, the 
color had left her cheek, and her eyes took on the 
glassy, hollow look that comes from much wakeful- 
ness. Little or no food, lack of exercise, and the 
midsummer heat were telling upon her body and 
upon her nerves. 

Thus the first week passed after Chentington had 
left her. It was the first day of August. The night 
had been one of the hottest of the summer. The 
city was waking to life, listlessly and with dread of 
the coming day. Nan, after a sleepless night, rose 


NAN^S HOPELESS LOVE. 


115 


early, and drew back the curtains from the window. 
She looked into a mirror and smiled bitterly. 

‘‘Even six-dollar a week positions are not open to 
me now,’’ she said. “Oh, Betty, what wouldn't I 
give to lay my head on your lap and have a good 
cry.” 

She lighted an oil stove and made a cup of coffee. 
“At home,” she said, “they are now sitting down to 
breakfast. The air is cool from the ocean ; and soon 
Lem will go over to see Uncle Dave.” Her voice 
ended in a sob. 

At that moment The Fool and Pont were leisurely 
walking up West Street, having just disembarked 
from the Fall River boat. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


THE FOOL IN NEW YORK. 

The Fool had been in New York a week. It had 
been a week of ceaseless wandering, observation, 
meditation. He saw much that interested, confused, 
appalled him. He had procured lodging for himself 
and Pont far up town where the city merged with 
the country. Good fortune had guided them to the 
home of an aged German woman, where lodging for 
man and dog was to be had. The Fool was content 
with whatever was offered. He exacted only one 
condition — his dog must be well provided for. The 
landlady stated her price. He gave double. Money, 
he knew, was the General of servitude. Here, in the 
quiet lodging, after the heat and fatigue of the day, 
they would sit together — the dog in silent contem- 
plation of his master, who confided to him what he 
dared not express to others. 

Day and night he continued his search for Nan. 
He had exhausted every means of discovering her 
present home. The result was failure. He haunted 
the entrances to the theatres. The crowds, the glare 


THE FOOL IN NEW YORK. 


117 

of many lights, the hurrying populace, amazed and 
confused him. The result of his daily and nightly 
efforts was always the same. Once he saw Chent- 
ington with a lady leaving one of the Broadway 
theatres after the performance. He pushed 
forward through the crowd. Chentington’s com- 
panion was not Nan. Somehow his disappointment 
was a relief ; and the fears that filled him gave place 
to a feeling of satisfaction. He redoubled his 
efforts. The days went by, and failure only fixed 
the more firmly his determination to find her. 

Pont accompanied him daily on his journey; but 
at night he was left in the care of the landlady. This 
was not to Font's liking, and he was outspoken in 
his condemnation of the arrangement ; but his 
master was firm. 

They had been tramping about the city all day, 
and both were tired. The Fool was smoking. 
Taking the pipe from his mouth he regarded Pont 
in meditative silence. The dog lay before his mas- 
ter’s chair, his eyes fixed upon him in anticipation. 
He expected his master to speak, and interrogated 
him with a soft growl. 

The Fool answered : 

‘‘Pont, we have been in New York a little more 
than a week. Man, in his best judgment, will err; 
but the faces of the people whom we have seen im- 


THE FOOL. 


ii8 

press me with the belief that they have forgotten 
their God. They betray a degree of viciousness that 
is appalling. Passion has run riot — their souls are 
deformed.” 

''Yes,” said Pont, "I believe it.” He closed his 
mouth, turned his head to one side, and rolled his 
eyes at his master who continued musingly : 

"Strange, that Man’s besetting folly is a belief 
that he is superior to his fellows. Satisfied that he 
can read the heart and the mind of every human 
being with whom he comes in contact, he deludes 
himself with the belief that he is deceiving mankind. 
He is sitting in judgment on his fellow-men ; but he, 
himself, is beyond fathoming.” 

He smoked in silence for some moments, then 
retrospectively : 

"Have the instincts of these people been blunted 
by circumstance or warped by passion? There is a 
retrogression of the human race in progress here. 
I can’t wholly understand it. Their eyes proclaim 
their guilt. Man’s soul speaks through the eyes. 
Pont, let me see your eyes.” 

The dog rolled his eyes until the white shone. 

"It’s the heart that talks through those eyes. Per- 
haps a dog hasn’t a soul. I fear that I’ve been too 
eager to discover the weaknesses. To-morrow we 


THE FOOL IN NEW YORK. 119 

shall look for the good ; and we shall continue our 
search for the woman your master once loved.” 

The evening of the eighth day after their arrival 
The Fool stood before a mirror arranging his tie. 
He was in evening dress. Something unusual was 
afoot, and Pont was not slow to discover it. He 
walked about his master and scrutinized the fault- 
less suit of black, shiny boots and silk scarf, in 
which his master was attired. He was not pleased. 
He questioned his master with a soft, prolonged 
.growl. It meant anything from: ‘Where are you 
going?” to ‘T don't fancy being left behind.” 

“The Hotel Renaissance. Dinner. No dogs 
allowed.” 

If Pont wasn't human, he possessed what many 
human beings lack — opinions that are individual, 
founded on the underlying principle of common 
sense, and no ^ of a changeable order. He did not 
approve of hotels which excluded dogs, and he said 
so in unmistakable language. 

“Well, I can't help it,” said his master pacifically, 
“such are the rules. I'm free to admit, Mr. Hard- 
to-please, that I should much prefer to dine with you 
at home. You must remember that this is our first 
visit to New York; and, as yet, your master has not 
touched elbows with the untitled nobility. This 
hotel, doglums, is the gilded cage where these birds 


120 


THE FOOL, 


of brilliant plumage disport themselves. You don’t 
care a fig for them? Pooh! Neither do I! But we 
must see — we must know. We must saturate our 
senses with the incense of wealth. We must inform 
ourselves wherein the gilded throng differ from 
ordinary mortals. Wealth is a despot — jealous of 
its own power. It rules man arbitrarily, because it 
owns and controls him — cupidity is one of its off- 
spring. It is a germ — a microbe that attacks the 
heart of the greater number. It draws on all that is 
base in humankind, and props the throne of the 
tyrant that gave it birth. It is a bottomless moat 
that lies between man and his hope of Heaven.” 

Pont listened. To him, all these high sounding 
phrases, were as mere words, words, words. The 
prospect of a lonely evening was a reality that could 
not be talked away. He remained silent and watched 
his master. Into Pont’s eyes crept a cunning gleam 
— evil was working in his mind. But he must exer- 
cise the caution that had been taught him. Care- 
fully he put away his seditious designs, and assumed 
an air of innocent unconcern, so human as to almost 
invite detection. His master suspected nothing. His 
faith in Pont was complete. 

A pang of shame shot through Pont’s heart. He 
almost wished that his contemplated treachery 
would be discovered. But his master was preparing 


THE FOOL IN NEW YORK. 


I2I 


to depart, and, patting him on the head, with an 
injunction to be a '‘good dog,^’ he was off. 

Pont sat down and reasoned thus: "The land- 
lady will bring in my supper. The hall door is open 

— ril wait beside this door. When she opens it 

He almost barked with joy at the thought. "I, 
also, wish to know more of the city. I shall take a 
little trip down town and be back before my master's 
return." 

He barked derisively. The landlady, mistaking it 
for a command to bring his supper, entered the 
room — a platter of food in her hand, a smile on her 
kindly face. 

The dog s time had come. He sprang through 
the open door, and, barking a joyful adieu, dashed 
down the street. 

The Fool entered the hotel and was shown to a 
seat in the main dining hall. 

"What would Dave say," he mused, "could he 
look in upon me?" 

He was surrounded by luxury, brilliancy, 
wealth. The power of money had been exhausted 
in the furnishings and appointments that met his 
critical gaze; but it was not these he had come 
to see. His senses were affected by a feeling of 


122 


THE FOOL. 


languorous ease and sensuous pleasure — ^the ani- 
mate life 

He proceeded with the dinner. His eyes and 
brain were alert. He saw, he marvelled, and a smile 
— faint, but contemptuous — played about the cor- 
ners of his mouth. 

'‘Well,’' he mused, "this seems to represent the 
apex of human desire — the pinnacle has been 
reached. These mortals have scaled the heights, 
whose ascent is impeded with social and financial 
pit-falls. They have trodden the pathway garnished 
by the whitening bones of those whose footing was 
insecure, who lie buried in the seams and crevices of 
the human Matterhorn — swallowed in the abyss 
of oblivion. Those who have succeeded in the 
climbing are at a dizzy height. One false step, and 
the descent — as a star falls into space. 'What fools 
these mortals be.’ I believe one Shakespeare wrote 
that. He was wise before his time.” 

He toyed with the ices that were set before him. 

"Bah,” he mused, "these people are crushed by 
their own self-esteem. If they would only be nat- 
ural, much might be forgiven. The women are 
beautiful. Why could they not put aside their sem- 
inary airs and graces with their commencement 
gowns. The greater number have studied deport- 
ment, and are out of practice. They are sparring 


THE FOOL IN NEW YORK, 


1*3 


with Nature. She, the crafty dame, smiles at their 
conceit. Betty, there’s not one among them here 
who can compare with you.” 

The sound of music in waves of melody blended 
with the subdued hum of voices. The air was redo- 
lent with the perfume of potted ferns and flowers. 
The lights were softened to a soothing brilliancy. 

‘‘Em.” The Fool’s eyes wandered over the throng 
that filled the room. “These are not of the order of 
men who have made history. Surely not. Acci- 
dent of birth, education, and the restraint levied by 
social surroundings have intervened, and saved 
some of them from being criminals. As a class, the 
moral side of their nature is deformed. If this be 
a sample of the aristocracy of America, it is, at best, 
a mean thing. It’s like a copy of a master painting, 
done with a poor brush and unsteady touch. I be- 
lieve I’ll go home and talk to Pont. He, good dog, 
possesses the virtue of sincerity — in so much is he 
their superior. They are encased in a veneer of 
worldliness compounded of self-assurance, and a be- 
lief in their own supremacy. Bah! they will yet 
have to reckon with old age and their conscience. 
Time is a leveler. They have forgotten it.” 

He returned home, carrying with him no feeling 
of satisfaction. 

Entering his lodgings, he was greeted by the land- 


124 


THE FOOL, 


lady with tears and lamentations — Pont had 
gone. 

In a mixture of German and English the good 
soul, who had promised to guard Pont with her 
life, gave her version of the affair. 

The Fool was deeply moved — as much by her 
evident distress, as by his own loss. He tried to 
calm her ; but her tears flowed, and she accused her- 
self of every crime in the calendar. Exhausted, she 
controlled herself to listen. 

‘T will insert an advertisement, and offer a re- 
ward in the newspapers. Don’t distress yourself. 
We shall find him.” 

After an absence of an hour he returned. He as- 
sumed a confident air, and cheered the landlady with 
words of hope that he did not feel. As further ef- 
fort would be useless, he sat up during the night to 
wait for the return of the runaway. 

After Pont had reached the street he indulged in 
noisy demonstrations not in keeping with his gentle 
breeding. He crossed the bridge, tore up Third 
Avenue on his way to the park, and growled con- 
temptuously at the outstretched hands that would 
restrain him. He knew the park well. He could 
find the very bench that was his master’s favorite 
seat, and, panting with joy, he lay before it. Be- 
cause he had stolen it, liberty was doubly sweet. 

A band of music was playing, and there was a 


THE FOOL IN NEW YORK. 


125 


great crowd of people. He did not fancy crowds, 
and he sniffed the air with disdain. But even dogs 
of his intelligence misjudge their own wisdom. He 
was regarding the moving mass of people with a 
contempt born of lofty sensibility. He was com- 
paring them, individually, to his master ; his verdict 
inspired the look of superiority which he patroniz- 
ingly bestowed upon them. But here fate seemed 
to desert him. A hand grasped his collar. He 
struggled, but was held firmly — he had been se- 
cured from behind, hence he could not use his teeth. 

His captors were evil looking men with bearded 
faces. Their voices were harsh; and, as they bent 
over him to examine the collar about his neck, he 
smelled whiskey — poor whiskey. 

^Xem Mason,’' read one of the men. ‘‘Oldfleet, 
Mass. License 37.” 

A whispered conference followed ; the music, with 
a final burst, ceased; the crowd jostled each other; 
and Pont, notwithstanding that he struggled to bite 
his captors, was led away. Then it was that re- 
morse filled him in its completeness. He shuddered. 
His master! what would he say? Guilty shame 
filled him. 

The two men whispered to each other, and he 
learned his probable fate — he was to be tied up to 
await the offer of a reward that was sure to follow. 


126 


THE FOOL. 


After being dragged through miles of streets he 
was securely tied in a room in the rear of a saloon 
on the East Side. Sickened by the odors, his ears 
tingling with the language of the drunken inmates, 
through hours of such torment and misery as he 
had never dreamed, he had opportunity to re- 
flect upon his misconduct. His companions, 
throughout the night, were thieves and pickpockets ; 
and he became aware of depths of depravity, the 
knowledge of which shocked him. He did not com- 
plain, for he well knew that he had brought about 
his own punishment. Never was repentance more 
sincere. Should he escape 

The morning brought his captors with an ani- 
mated discussion of their prize. 

‘'Bill,’’ he heard one of them say, “here ’tis — fifty 
dollars reward. Answer to the name of Pont.” 

Pont heard his name spoken, but not even by the 
movement of a hair did he disclose his identity. He 
recorded a vow that they would never get a cent of 
that reward. Not a cent. Already he had planned 
his line of action, and snapping his jaws together, 
a feeling of satisfaction thrilled him. The sound 
was like that of a steel trap closing. He listened. 

“I’m afraid there’s a string tied to that fifty. 
Wonder if the cops have hold of the other end?” 

“Don’t make a dam’s odds,” came the reply. 


THE FOOL IN NEW YORK. 


127 


‘‘We're going to make a play for it. Untie 
him." 

Pont was on his good behavior. He hung his 
head, and tail, and appeared utterly crushed. 
Once outside, they renewed their argument as to the 
speediest methods of spending the reward. Font's 
back straightened. With a howl. Bill, who held the 
rope, threw his hands into the air. For one short 
instant Font's teeth were fastened in the calf of 
Bill's leg; the next, with rope dangling after him, 
he was dashing up Third Avenue. 

The speed with which a dog can cover the dis- 
tance is not on record, but it is safe to say that dog 
never made better time. Breathless, dust-covered, 
with a piece of rope attached to his collar, he bound- 
ed into the room where his master was sitting — 
the breakfast still untouched. Barking frantically, 
he tore about the room, mad with joy, and nearly 
threw his master to the floor; then noting indica- 
tions which meant forgiveness, he took his seat at 
the table. He was hungry, and he said so plainly. 
Later they could discuss his transgression. 

After breakfast they had a long and serious talk. 
Pont hung his head. His master concluded : 

“ and so it is, Pont, that when we have a 

friend — and confidence must be the foundation of 
friendship — we must weld the chain about our 
hearts, and seal the links with our life's blood. 


128 


THE FOOL. 


There can be no excuse for a breach of friendship. 
True friendship is elastic — it never breaks. You 
may stretch it to the danger point, but faith stands 
guard, drawing the rents together, and it grows 
again. You cannot sever true friendship, because 
it is indissoluble. It is like running a knife through 
water, that closes in after the knife is removed. 
Only a ripple reminds you that the water has been 
disturbed.’' 

Pont knew that what his master said was true. 
He jumped to the floor and, coming to his side, 
licked his hand. That meant contrition. His mas- 
ter patted his head lovingly. There was no occasion 
for him to ask — the action spelled forgiveness. 

Two hours later they were going leisurely 
over the ground that Pont had covered in the early 
morning, when again he was guilty of what seemed 
extraordinary behavior. 

When near Sixteenth Street on Third Avenue, 
Pont’s nose went up into the air. With a spring he 
freed himself, and, barking his joy, leaped upon a 
woman whom they were about to pass. His master 
had been observing a blockade of cars occasioned by 
the overturning of a heavy truck. As Pont broke 
away, he turned and stood face to face with Nan, 
who was speechless with surprise, while Pont con- 
tinued his wild manifestations of delight. 


CHAPTER IX. 


‘‘even I HAVE LOVED.’’ 

Nan was so overcome that it was some moments 
before she could speak. At last she said falteringly : 

“Come, I live near here.” 

They entered a house a few doors from the comer 
and mounted the stairs. Neither spoke again until 
they were in Nan’s room, and the door was 
closed. She was visibly affected; a soft color had 
stolen to her cheeks, her features twitched convul- 
sively, and it was with an effort that she controlled 
herself. She placed a chair for The Fool, and busied 
herself in laying aside her hat and gloves. This 
gave her time to regain her composure; yet her 
voice faltered as she spoke. 

‘'Uncle Dave” — she turned her questioning eyes 
to The Fool. 

“He is well,” he answered. “At least, he was a 
week ago, when I last saw him.” 

“And — and did he send you?” 

“He did not send me. He did not know I was 
coming. I left word with Betty that I was going 


130 


THE FOOL, 


away for a week or two. I did not say where. She 
was to tell Dave.^’ 

His answer seemed to relieve her; still, she was 
far from being at her ease. She instinctively felt 
that she was connected with the object of The 
Fool's visit to the city; and his assurance that his 
presence there was unknown to Dave, only increased 
her fear that she was the cause of his coming. She 
looked at him fixedly, but his gaze met hers calmly. 
He noted that her features were thin and her eyes 
lustreless : the color had left her cheeks, and the 
change since he had last seen her was marked. His 
face was impassive, and the eager, searching look 
she fixed upon him told her nothing. In the 
eyes that met hers, she read only calm, friendly 
concern. 

''Lem, how does it happen that you came here? 
Tell me about Uncle Dave. How is Betty? Tell 
me of every one. Oh," she continued with a chok- 
ing sob, "you don't know how lonely and homesick 
I've been." Her voice trembled and died in a half 
moan. 

The Fool listened. His countenance did not be- 
tray his amazement. In the hurried, broken sen- 
tences, he recognized the change that had come over 
her. Was this the self-willed, imperious girl whom 
he had loved? Was this voice, tremulous with emo- 


mVEN I HAVE LOVEDJ 


tion, with sorrow in every note, and dejection, love 
and fear in every tone, hers, whose lightest word 
had always been a command, and whose laugh was 
scoffing disdain for all things except those that were 
denied her? Were the features before him, trem- 
bling with supplication, and inviting the pitying 
word which would herald the tears, that were even 
then quivering on her eyelashes, the Nan whom he 
had known? He saw, and with the intuition born 
of a heart that has loved, he mentally questioned the 
cause, and marvelled. What had wrought the 
change ? He directed a searching glance at her face, 
as if he expected to read there the answer to his 
conjectures. It was but momentary, but it did not 
escape Nan, whose eyes were fixed upon him with 
the consciousness that her face betrayed her. It 
seemed to her he could read her very soul. 

Her hand, that she had involuntarily raised as 
she addressed him, fell to her side. The action 
more than the look, told of acute agony, which made 
her face appear that of one prematurely aged. 

He was not slow to recognize the look of suffer- 
ing, and the movement that accompanied it. To put 
her more at ease, he continued : 

‘T had been planning to come to New York for 
some time,’’ he said. ‘'Betty is well, and everything 
at home is going on just the same.” 


132 


THE FOOL. 


‘‘And is Unde Dave lonesome? Oh, I know he 
must be.’’ She said tremulously, “Does he often 
speak of me?” 

“Often,” he answered. “Of course, after you had 
gone, he was lonely — no one will ever know how 
lonely. Now he is used to it, and everything goes 
on as when you were at home.” 

He spoke sorrowfully, abstractedly. His mind 
was with the fisherman. For the moment he had for- 
gotten all else but the man who was waiting — for- 
ever waiting for the coming of the Nan who would 
never return; for the woman who now drank in 
every word with eager ear, whose eyes cried for the 
pity that she dared not ask, was not the young girl 
the fisherman had watched over. Pity for her 
filled the heart of The Fool — for he read aright. 
No need to recount her struggle, her failure, for 
through the sorrowing eyes before him the soul 
spoke in a language its own ; and there he read the 
regret that filled the heart of the woman he had 
loved. 

After they had talked some minutes of her home, 
she became calmer. Pont, with eyes directed to- 
ward his master, after many questioning appeals for 
permission, went to Nan’s side and pushed his nose 
into her hand. She knelt beside him and laid her 
cheek on his head. 


^EVEN I HAVE LOVEDJ 


133 


‘'Dear Pont, how glad I am to see you. Lem, 
aren’t you afraid of losing him here ?” 

“Not again,” The Fool answered. “Pont is in 
disgrace: he ran away from the house where we 
were staying. He came back this morning.” 

Pont hung his head with a proper show of con- 
trition, and crept under the table. 

“Tell me what you have done since you came 
here. Nan,” said The Fool, “are you studying?” 

“Yes,” she replied dejectedly, “yes. Lemmie, I 
can’t explain so that you could understand, but I 
am sorry I came — sorry that I ever left home. How 
did I ever conceive the idea of acting? I can’t tell, 
but I regret it — you can never know how much.” 

The shadow of a smile flitted across the face 
of her listener. With the mention of the stage he 
thought of Chentington. 

“I have seen Chentington in New York,” he said 
abruptly. 

“You have seen him?” 

She turned to him as if electrified — her counte- 
nance aflame with interest. 

“Where?” she cried. 

“Going into a theatre.” 

Her face was flushed, and her eyes lighted up 
with their old-time fire. The look, the tone of the 
voice, told The Fool all he wished to know. 


134 


THE FOOL, 


^‘Was — was he alone?’’ she asked, making no at- 
tempt to disguise her interest. 

‘‘No, there was a lady with him.” 

She said nothing. The same hopeless look re- 
turned. She leaned one arm against the mantel and 
rested her head against it. Despair was stamped 
on her features, and every look and movement told 
of her hopeless love. Nothing escaped the eyes that 
rested upon her with a pity that was pathetic. In 
every line of her features, in every movement, was 
abject despair; and in The Fool’s heart rose the 
ghost of a dead love. No passion was there, but 
sorrow and pity for the woman who, for years, had 
filled his life. Again there came to him the memory 
of a love that filled him during the years when 
his secret passion had held out to him hope — a hope 
to which he had clung with a tenacity that even his 
better judgment could not wholly allay. Her love, 
and the possibility that he might win it, was what 
had urged him on to accomplish something that 
would make him worthy — that would cause her to 
forget his physical shortcomings. In that moment, 
he again lived through the years that had been at 
once a joy and a torment to him ; but, as he now be- 
held her crushed, humiliated, scorned by the man 
she loved, one emotion filled him — pity. His voice 


^^EVEN I HAVE LOVEDr 135 

as he addressed her was pitched in his usual mono- 
tone. 

^‘And do you love him, Nan?'' 

^'Would to God that I did not," her voice broke 
into sobs. 

Resentment filled him. He knew the utter un- 
worthiness of Chentington — he was acquainted 
with his past, and he marvelled that her love still 
lived. 

‘‘Who," he thought, “can understand a woman's 
heart? No reasoning power can divine its work- 
ings, or explain the blind, unswerving loyalty which 
she bestows on the object of a love that is once born. 
Reason, she does not. It is enough that she loves, 
and the light that her passion throws across her 
life, eclipses all else. Be the love ever so unworthy 
or unholy, all other emotions pale before it. 

Nan was not blind to Chentington's character. 
She had learned to know him during the past few 
months ; but she loved him with a mad, unreasoning 
passion that admitted of no curb or restraint. It was 
enough for her that he filled her life, and from that 
love grew a hope that he would return to her — a 
hope as futile as to call on her memory to blot out 
the past. 

Indignation roused The Fool. He hoped to stir 
her self-respect. 


136 


THE FOOL, 


‘‘He isn't worthy of a moment's thought," he 
said. “How can you still care for him?" His voice 
was unguarded. 

She turned her face to him, half smiling through 
her tears. 

“How can I love him? Lem, you have never 
loved." 

He laughed softly, bitterly. His eyes were fixed 
upon her face. In her excitement, her old beauty 
seemed to return. 

“You cannot understand," she said. “How can 
you, when you don't know what love is ?" 

She was sincere in the belief of what she said; 
nor had she a desire to wound him ; but the words 
sank into his heart, and the pain was none the less 
when he realized that his love might seem to her 
grotesque. But he was human, and her words 
lashed his pride and self-respect into life. He 
laughed again, but it was mirth that chills the blood. 
It was as one laughs who looks into a mirror and 
sees his mis-shapen form, or his own ill-favored 
features leering at him. 

“Lem," she said half hysterically, “if you only 
knew how I craved for another than our own quiet, 
country life. I longed for fame. I was willing to 
sacrifice all — all for the success I believed I could 
win — even the love of those who had been so good. 




'EVEN I HAVE LOVEDJ 


137 


SO kind, so noble. I now blush with shame at my 
thoughtlessness, my ingratitude. I was wrong — I 
know it now; but it is too late. I learned to love 
him, and, oh, Lem, Lem — even my dreams mock 
me, for I wake each day to find it more hopeless than 
the last.” 

She paused, exhausted by her emotion. 

‘‘Yes,” he said calmly, “I can appreciate what you 
suffer.” 

She shook her head. “No,” she sobbed, “you 
cannot, you cannot.” 

He looked at her pityingly, but without other 
visible emotion. 

“You are wrong,” he said calmly, “for even I — 
I, The Fool, have loved. Even though it were in 
imagination — a fantasy. Still I know what love 
might be.” 

She looked up quickly through her tears. His 
words carried but little conviction to her mind. She 
believed he was expressing sympathy, that 
her evident distress had awakened. She had 
always regarded him as she might a child — one 
whom the passion of love had never touched. His 
calm, at that moment, was the calm of feelings held 
in restraint, for her tears had awakened within him 
the dreams of his youth and of his manhood. Like 
a gust of wind that fans a smouldering fire into a 


THE FOOL. 


133 

momentary flame, his love leaped into life; but to 
her, as she looked at him, came only bitterness, fill- 
ing her with sorrow which shook her frame. 

‘‘Is it,’' he said sadly, “because I am The Fool that 
I cannot love ? Have I not thought what love might 
be? Have I not dreamed of what life would hold 
if I could look forward to the time when some one 
would believe I was necessary to her happiness, her 
life? Have I not felt my pulses throb in anticipa- 
tion, my heart beat at the very possibility that I 
might be beloved ? Have I not dreamed, that, even 
with my imperfections, some one there might be 
who would not see them, or seeing, love me the 
more? Ah, yes. For years there was stamped in 
my heart the portrait of one I could have loved, have 
worshiped. And then — then came an awakening. 
It was more bitter than if I had never loved, had 
never hoped, even in the realms of fancy. Reason 
returned, for it was not to be. And through the 
years that my insane passion lived, I look back with- 
out regret, aye, with rejoicing that no one but my- 
self has ever known, has ever shared the sorrow, the 
humiliation that I felt when I realized that I was in 
truth The Fool.” 

He had unconsciously dropped his customary life- 
less tone, and his voice, though steady, was 
freighted with the passion that he felt. His features 


^EVEN 1 HAVE LOVEDJ 


139 


reflected the fire of his words, and the eyes that 
looked into Nan’s told her what she had never im- 
agined — that he could love. She had followed him 
through his impassioned speech, and the truth grad- 
ually dawned upon her that she had never judged 
him rightly — had never known him. It was not 
alone what he said. He had dropped the mask, and, 
for the first time, she recognized the man before her 
in his true light — her mental superior. But it was 
the shock of realizing she had never measured his 
worth that sent the blood to her cheek. 

‘"Lem,” she exclaimed in a choking voice, 


She could say no more. Sobs shook her frame, 
and she buried her head on her arm, that was rest- 
ing on the mantel. 

‘‘Yes,” he said sadly, “even I. Some of us in the 
world have no right to love. I presumed to question 
the decree that Fate had promulgated.” 

He mused a while. The roar of the city coming 
through the open windows, and a convulsive sob 
from Nan, were the only sounds. 

“You see,” he said in the tone of voice he 
assumed when addressing Pont, “Fate has her 
own inscrutable rules, and when we try to im- 
prove on their working, she smites us, as a reminder 
that we are presuming on her good nature. Fools 


140 


THE FOOL, 


should not love. That is a fundamental principle. 
I disregarded it."' 

‘Toor, poor Lem. Just Heaven she exclaimed 
almost fiercely, “and I thought that I alone suffered. 
Do not blame me, Lem. God knows I am paying 
my debt. If my faults were great, so is my punish- 
ment.’' 

“Blame you,” he answered, “who am I that I 
should blame you? Don’t cry, Nannie.” 

But the flood gates were open, and the torrent was 
not to be easily checked. The pent-up sorrow and 
discouragement for the failure of the past months 
were given vent. Perhaps The Fool realized it, for 
he offered no word to soothe her grief. 

Pont came from under the table, and laid his head 
on his master’s knee. With large-eyed sympathy he 
looked at the figure standing by the mantel, — her 
frame trembling with the sobs she struggled to 
suppress. The dog looked again into his master’s 
face, then, as if in recognition of his own helpless- 
ness, pushed his cold nose into the hand that gently 
patted his head. 

“Lem,” she spoke with an effort. “I feel keenly 
what you have told me. Yet, I know, however un- 
worthy I may be, you will advise me.” 

He smiled. “Why, Nannie, no one ever seeks 
The Fool for advice.” 


^EVEN 1 HAVE LOVEDJ 


141 

''Don’t speak so, Lem, you make me feel all the 
more miserable.” 

"Of course, I will advise you if I can; but don’t 
you think your Uncle Dave ” 

"No, no, I can’t go home.” She turned almost 
fiercely. "I could not go back with the mark of 
failure and humiliation stamped upon me. I will 
struggle on. I shall succeed, even if I give my life 
in the effort.” 

He did not reply, for he understood her incentive 
to success. Realizing that it was a battle that she 
must fight out alone, he offered no further advice; 
and, when she had become calm, they talked of 
home, of Betty, and of what had happened since she 
had left. 

"Of course, I know that you write for Uncle Dave 
and read my letters to him. How good you are. 
When I sent for the money, I hope it didn’t distress 
him. Did you hear him say so, Lem ?” 

"No,” he answered. "Pont, go under the table. 
Be a good dog.” 

Pont obeyed, but looked his surprise. At that 
moment he was behaving most admirably. He 
thought some things, but remained quiet. He knew 
where the money came from. 

"When do you return home?” she asked. 

"In a day or two,” he replied. 


142 


THE FOOL. 


Some further talk, with a promise to see her be- 
fore he left the City, and Pont and his master de- 
scended the stairs to the street. 

They did not return at once to their lodgings, but 
sat in one of the parks. Pont was much concerned 
with meeting an old acquaintance so far from home. 
He was also conscious that the credit of discovering 
Nan was his — he said so almost audibly; and, as- 
suming a very superior air, carried himself with 
added distinction. His master smiled, and Pont 
watched the passers-by with a proud disdain born of 
a lofty intelligence and uncontaminated blood. 

The night fell softly, and with the descending sun 
the roar of the City sank to a sullen murmur. 




CHAPTER X. 


A bird's message of love. 

It was some days after The Fool's departure be- 
fore Roaring Dave could accustom himself to the 
fact that he had gone. He had learned to lean upon 
The Fool's judgment, and when Betty had informed 
him that his friend left a message, stating that 
he would be away an indefinite time, Dave's sur- 
prise had given way to conjectures as to the reason 
for the sudden departure. But the more he thought, 
the more confused he became. 

‘'Wher' hes th' dern little cuss gone ter?" This 
he asked himself a hundred times daily. ‘‘An' he 
never sed a word ter me about goin'." This he 
confided to Betty, with the assurance that, “wher- 
ever he was, he'd turn up again in good time. Ther' 
may be bigger men than him, but ther' ain't no 
better, and," he would conclude with emphasis, “no 
wiser." 

He missed the daily visits, and wondered who 
would read Nan's letters; but none came. The days 
went by, the nights wore themselves away, and he 


144 


THE FOOL. 


counted the hours until he would see Betty again; 
for time he reckoned from these meetings. He kept 
up a running commentary with his hound, the sea, 
and Nature; confided his love secrets to the world 
at large, taking care that he was alone ; roared Dan 
and the village loungers into silence; but left his 
boisterousness and his courage at the gate of Betty's 
home before entering. 

It was nearing the end of the second week of The 
Fool's absence. Dave had occasion to go to the 
village in the late afternoon and, as it was near 
tea time, he was about to pass the house without 
stopping. Betty's voice arrested him in front of 
the gate. 

''You aren't going by without coming in, Dave?" 

"Ho! Yer don't want folks cornin’ round at tea- 
time," he answered. 

"We don't, unless they will stay to tea with us." 

Dave would have taken a solemn oath that never 
before had he heard sweeter music. Nor would he 
have been alone in his verdict, for her voice was 
as that of the birds’ note echoing from the treetop 
nearby. 

"Come," she urged, "you haven’t any excuse for 
refusing." 

Dave framed a dozen, none of which would he 
have allowed to intervene. He would not have re- 


A BIRD^S MESSAGE OF LOVE. 


145 


fused the invitation for untold wealth. He said 
something about not being ''dressed up/’ while 
Betty smiled, and the birds twittered derisively. 

"Dave, I believe you’re getting vain.” 

Her eyes laughed him into confusion. They sat in 
the shade of a tree in the garden before the house. 
Betty, in a light-colored summer gown and straw 
hat, seemed as cool as the freshly watered flowers 
at their feet. The evening was warm, and Dave’s 
feelings did not tend to composure. 

"Yer see, Betty,” he said, "since Nannie went 
away, I don’t bother about gettin’ meals. It’s too 
hot weather ter start a fire ; an’ ther’ ain’t no one but 
me an’ th’ dog ; an’ he hes ter take what I hev — an’ 
it’s mostly picked up stuff.” 

He looked up, abashed at this lengthy speech, to 
meet Betty’s sympathetic eyes fixed upon him. 
Without a tremor, he could face a twelve-foot shark 
in open water with nothing but a trusty knife, but 
the eyes that looked into his, drove the blood from 
his heart, and set his emotions rioting in a manner 
that maddened him. Her laugh reassured him. 

"Now, I will map out your housekeeping for one 
day. Hot coffee, bacon and eggs in the morning. 
Surely that would require but little effort.” 

"No,” dubiously, "but yer see, Betty, ther’s th’ 


146 


THE FOOL. 


dishes ter wash. Gum! I believe Td rather go 
without the breakfast/’ 

She laughed. ^‘Why, it’s but a few minutes’ 
work.” 

Dave’s eyes followed the movement of her fingers 
as they strayed over some light needle work. His 
glance returning to his big, hairy paws resting on 
his knee, he sighed and put them in the pockets of 
his trousers. 

‘Tor dinner,” she resumed, “You have the 
garden to draw from for vegetables; a ham 
boiled — that will last several days, when you can 
have it cold sliced ; some fruit and ” 

“More dishes ter wash.” He was startled at his 
own interruption. Betty smiled. 

“And for supper ” 

“Yes?” 

“You may come here. We have supper daily at 
six.” 

“Here ! Ho !” This is too much of Heaven at one 
glimpse, and the roar that had escaped him died in 
a far-ofif echo. It needed only Betty’s merry laugh 
to complete his confusion. Aunt Martha came to 
the door and bade them come to supper. 

“There, Davie,” she said cheerily, “I heard yer, 
before I saw yer. Come right in; the supper’s on 
the table.” 


A BIRD’S MESSAGE OF LOVE. 


147 


They entered through the front door and passed 
on to the summer dining room. In Winter it is the 
kitchen, dining room and general living room; but 
during the Summer the cooking is done in the ad- 
joining porch. 

A highly polished floor, that shines like the bald 
spot on Uncle John's head, or the glasses of his spec- 
tacles that repose benignly on his forehead over his 
gray shaggy eyebrows; windows that open on the 
orchard, the limbs of the apple trees, twisted and 
gnarled, almost bursting the screens, softening the 
light that falls in a mellow glow on the table in the 
center of the room, snow white as to covering and 
as daintily adorned as a piece of Turkish mosaic: — 
this was what met Dave's eyes as he entered. 

There are joys and joys, but for those who have 
never partaken of a New England country tea, 
there is one joy left. 

There is the cream — freshly skimmed — fruit 
from the garden, cold meats, biscuits as light and 
white as November snow flakes, tea, clear spring 
water, and linen that to stain were a sacrilege. 
But more than all, an Aunt Martha and Uncle 
John, who had never heard of the Boulevard, the 
Piccadilly Circus, or that less aristocratically named, 
but more unsavory. Tenderloin. And when you 
have finished with the cake and berries, and listened 


148 


THE FOOL. 


to what you will hear, you wish that you knew less 
of other things. 

‘‘Davie, you will have more of the chicken?’’ 
Aunt Martha’s voice was pursuasive though Dave 
needed no urging. “Betty’s been a saying that she 
knew you don’t cook at all.” 

The eyes of the speaker rested on the face of her 
guest with motherly compassion His face as- 
sumed a dull scarlet hue that elicited from Uncle 
John this very sage remark : 

“He don’t appear ter be goin’ into a decline.” 

Betty came to the rescue. “Uncle John, how 
would you like to live on what Dave eats every 
day?” 

Uncle John quizzically: “What does he eat?” 

“Why, canned stufif,” she replied. 

Surprise arrested the spoonful of berries that 
Dave held in mid-air. 

“How d’yer know ?” Dave’s amazement was 
complete. 

Betty laughed. “How does a woman ever 
know? She guesses.” 

Dave marvelled. He looked upon Betty as a 
paragon ; and wonder took possession of him until 
they finished the repast. 

Uncle John rose from the table saying that he was 
going to the village for the mail. Betty and her 


A BIRD’S MESSAGE OF LOVE. 


149 


guest entered the sitting room, and, at Dave's re- 
quest, she played the hymn to which he had listened 
outside the gate a few nights before Nan's depart- 
ure. But as the familiar strains filled the room, 
he forgot his diffidence, and his voice rose in a full, 
melodious baritone. 

Betty continued playing, and on her lips was a 
smile of pleasure, for Dave's voice, — rich, full 
and unerringly true, filled the room and the 
house, and brought Aunt Martha to the door — her 
hands full of dishes, and the wrinkles on her kindly 
face deepening with pleasure and not a little surprise. 

‘‘Nearer my love to thee," sang Dave, wholly un- 
conscious that he was repeating the words which he 
had spoken outside the gate on the Spring night 
when he had listened to Betty. 

Aunt Martha's eyes twinkled merrily, and her 
head nodded, keeping time with the music. Betty 
colored slightly. The fisherman stood beside the 
organ, his hands behind him, his form erect, singing 
the music with discretion and no mean ability; but 
always repeating the oft recurring line, “Nearer 
my love to thee." Recognizing his mistake, he 
stopped abruptly, covered with confusion, and sat 
down. 

Betty and Aunt Martha laughed heartily. 


THE FOOL. 


150 

‘‘Fve forgotten the words,” he blurted out. His 
face was scarlet and he looked guiltily at Betty. 

‘‘Words or no words, Dave Kurran,” said Aunt 
Martha, “yer sing jest beautiful!”* 

This did not comfort Dave in the least, nor put 
him more at his ease. Neither did Betty’s smiling 
tribute add to his composure. 

“Yer’ll jest hev ter sing again directly Uncle John 
gets back.” 

This was Aunt Martha’s smiling verdict, as she 
returned to complete the clearing of the table. Dave 
muttered something about it’s “bein’ time ter go.” 
He was the picture of confusion ; and the calm eyes 
which sought his, did not tend to soothe him. 

A little bird fluttered through the open window, 
and brought relief to the fisherman’s embarrass- 
ment that words only increased. It flew about the 
room, diving from side to side in its endeavors to 
find a means of escape; striking against the walls; 
falling to the floor by the force of the blow, only to 
again rise on the wing and renew its flight. It 
beat against the glass of the top sash of the window 
with such force that, stunned and exhausted, it fell 
to the floor. 

Betty picked up the bird from where it lay and 
handled it gently. The fisherman standing beside 


A BIRD^S MESSAGE OF LOVE. 151 

her, they examined it and smoothed its ruffled feath- 
ers. But it was of no avail — it was dead. 

'Toor little thing,’’ said Betty, ‘‘Dave, we will 
bury it in the garden.” 

They dug a grave beside a rosebush and, lining it 
with leaves, laid the little feathered songster in it 
with gentle touch and hushed voices. Dave did not 
speak, but watched Betty’s white hands as she deftly 
fashioned the leaf-lined grave. Covering it, they 
returned to the summer bench in front of the house. 

“The bird’s flying into the window is an omen,” 
said Dave. 

Betty smiled sadly. “Poor little thing. It cer- 
tainly will bring good news.” 

“They say it’s a sign that something is going to 
happen. Hope there’s no bad news coming.” 

Dave wore a crestfallen look and his voice was 
tremulous. 

Betty looked up smiling, “Why, you don’t believe 
in such things, Dave?” 

He looked up in a startled manner. “Well,” he 
said, “I suppose you will laugh at me, but one night 
since Nannie went away, I was sitting alone think- 
ing of her, and a bird flew into the window. It 
fluttered about a bit and flew out again. It worried 
me, for, you see, I was thinking of Nannie. 
That night I dreamed of her, and I could see her as 


THE FOOL. 


IS* 

plainly as I see you now. She wer’ a kneeling by 
an open window lookin’ into th’ street, an’ her 
cheeks wer’ wet, fer she’d been cryin’.” His voice 
faltered and he caught his breath sharply. “She 
didn’t look th’ same’s she did when she left home ; — 
she wer’ thin, an’ her eyes wer’ sunken. She ap- 
peared as though she’d stiffered, an’ it had told on 
her. I can’t help it, Betty, but it all seemed so real 
that it’s been with me day an’ night ever since.” 

Not trusting his voice to continue he stopped ab- 
ruptly. 

In Betty’s eyes were sympathetic tears. To hide 
them, she rose to meet her uncle, who had just re- 
turned with the mail. 

“A letter for you, Betty,” he cried cheerily. 

She took the letter in her hand. “From New 
York, from Nan.” She turned to Dave. “Shall I 
read it now?” 

“Yes,” he said rising, “I want to speak to Uncle 
John. I’ll come back by the time yer finish th’ 
letter.” 

He went only as far as the fence, that divided the 
garden from the driveway ; and, while he discussed 
some matters with Uncle John, his eyes never left 
Betty’s face. His gaze, with the hunger of antic- 
ipation, rested on her features as she turned page 
after page of the letter, in which Nan had poured 


A BIRD^S MESSAGE OF LOVE, 


153 


out her heart in one long cry for sympathy, and for 
the love of those so far away. Betty caught the 
note of sorrow and remorse. The letter contained 
a message for Dave. She called him, and he came 
quickly. 

‘‘A message for you,'’ she said, not deeming it 
best that he should hear words which were meant 
for her alone. 

The fisherman stood before her while she read. 
Her voice was tuned in harmony with the hush of 
the deepening twilight, and with the words that she 
well knew would strike into the heart of her listener. 

‘Tell Uncle Dave that I never realized how much 
I loved him, until I found myself here alone. How 
good he has been to me ; how kind ; how thoughtful. 
Dear, Dear, Uncle Dave. Betty, you don’t know 
what he has been — father, mother, everything that 
they could be, — yes, more, a thousand times more. 
And I — I blush with shame when I think how 
thoughtless, how selfish I have been. Tell me, Betty 
dear, how I can atone? What can I do to prove to 
him that I am grateful? How can I blot out the 
years of thoughtlessness, of ingratitude; how recall 
the thousand heedless words and actions that must 
have given him pain ? Betty, darling, he has a heart 
that God gives to but one in a million. How well I 
know it. Shame crushes me when I think how 


154 


THE FOOL. 


happy I might have made home for him, and how 
little I did toward brightening his life. Tell him 
this for me, Betty dear, and God bless you both. 
Lem has been in New York. Pont was with him. 
They went away yesterday. Write, Betty dear, to 
your unhappy Nan.’’ 

By a strong effort Betty controlled her voice un- 
til the finish, when it died into a sob. Dave stood 
erect, and the dusk of the evening hid the tears that 
streamed down his cheeks. He did not speak and 
the niglit hid his emotions. The sounds which 
herald the coming of night were merging into 
one sustained note. Darkness was descending with 
stealth, and the pale stars blinked impatiently, 
weary of the twilight that, like a visitor loath to take 
his departure, lingered as if in defiance of the com- 
ing night. 

‘‘Betty,” the fisherman’s voice was calm, “that 
little bird brought us the best news I’ve heard in a 
long time. — So Lem’s been ter New York. Write 
ter Nannie. Tell her I couldn’t love her more’n I 
do. Say her Uncle Dave’s waitin’ fer her ter come 
home.” 

With a “good night” he was gone. 


CHAPTER XL 


THE FOOL RETURNS TO OLDFLEET. 

The next night The Fool and Pont alighted from 
the train at North Truston. He did not care to in- 
vite the comment that would follow his arrival at 
Oldfleet, so went to the next station and started 
on foot for home. He wished his return to be un- 
noticed; and he sought no companionship other 
than that of Pont. His dog’s society he en- 
joyed; and he asked nothing of the world but that 
he be allowed to go his own way in the pursuit of 
his happiness. This he knew was expecting much 
of a world that concerns itself with every one’s af- 
fairs but its own — preserving its particular and per- 
sistent scrutiny for those who dare manifest an in- 
clination for privacy. 

In his desire to reach home without being ob- 
served, it was not so much his own feelings which 
he considered, as it was to guard against inquisitive 
questioning that might involve the interests of those 
whom he would shield. 

They walked slowly along the sandy road. 


THE FOOL. 


156 

After the heat and turmoil of the city, the smell of 
the pines and the sea air filled them with a keen joy. 
The night was closing in upon them, and the dark- 
ness tended to calm Font’s rampant spirit. Yet he 
tried to tell, that this was to him — living ; that all the 
cities in the world could not compare with 
the beauty of the summer night, which seemed 
to breathe a welcome to them on their return. His 
master, deep in thought, went on in silence. He 
was reviewing the scenes in which he had lived for 
the past ten days — the turmoil, the strife, the pas- 
sion, the pride, the misery, the battle for existence. 
Then his nostrils filled with the sweet scented air. 
His senses were soothed with the calm of a summer 
evening — the insects chirping a welcome, and the 
night, breathless, seeming to listen to his footfalls 
sinking into the soft sand. 

‘Tont,” said his master, 'fit’s good to be at home 
again.” 

The dog, at the first sound of the voice, bounded 
a few paces in advance, looked into the speaker’s 
face, and before the question had been fully asked, 
answered energetically that it was; then scurried 
across an open field, and into a clump of scrub-oak. 
A fluttering of wings told that the dog’s instinct 
had led him into a flock of quail. 

A sharp whistle brought him to his master’s side. 


THE FOOL RETURNS TO OLDFLEET 157 


They were nearing their home, and already the out- 
lines of the rambling frame building, dark and unin- 
viting, rose before them like an unsocial phantom 
of the night. 

But to The Fool and his companion it was home ; 
and the feelings awakened were, in the master, 
those of rest, security and tender remembrances of 
past quiet contentedness; in the dog, uproarious joy, 
and a fixed purpose to knock the key out of his mas- 
ter’s hand when he attempted to open the door, and, 
incidentally, to throw the possessor of the key to the 
ground. But the dog’s reprimand was only a quiet- 
ing, affectionate appeal for patience; and the door 
swung open. 

The close musty smell within the house was as a 
whiff from Elysian fields; and when The Fool 
lighted a lamp and looked about the room, the sight 
of the dust-covered furnishings brought to him such 
joy as kings might envy. He threw open the win- 
dows and doors, and the soft cool air circulated 
through the house. Piling wood and kindling in 
the open grate, the fire sent out a succession of 
crackling greetings, and the kettle of water, hung 
on the spit to boil, soon added its song to the general 
chorus of good cheer. Pont, not to be outdone, 
barked uproariously ; and for the first time disobeyed 
his master and refused to be quiet. Both dog and 


158 


THE FOOL, 


man were hungry, and bacon and eggs, toasted 
crackers, cheese, canned delicacies and tea were soon 
on the table. 

Never had food tasted so sweet; never had the 
breeze that swept through the room, threatening to 
extinguish the lamp on the table, seemed so laden 
with the scent of the woods and flowers ; never had 
the logs in the grate .been so noisily demonstrative 
as then. There was an air about it all — that in- 
definable something that touches every human heart 
and cannot be counterfeited; the one comfort that 
appeals to rich and poor alike, in all lands, under all 
circumstances — home. 

Having finished their supper. The Fool lighted 
his pipe and, sitting before the open door, with Pont 
in his customary place, they rested after their jour- 
ney. 

‘'How am I to meet Dave?'' he mused, after some 
moments of thought. “What can I tell him ? How 
can I spare him the knowledge of the truth about 
Nan? I shall see him in the morning. I shall tell 
him that I saw Nan. I shall — Pont, do you think 
it very wrong to lie?" 

Pont rolled his eyes and looked at his master, 
shook his tail but refused an opinion. 

“I've got to do it," he continued. “Dave has 
trouble enough without knowing the truth ; besides 


THE FOOL RETURNS TO OLDFLEET 159 


it would do no good. If the truth in this world 
were always known, despair would overwhelm man- 
kind. If he ever discovers the part that Chenting- 
ton played — he must not. Chentington’s life would 
not be worth a puff of this smoke. Pont, why are 
people innately, inordinately bad?'’ Without paus- 
ing, he continued: ‘‘Men build cities, and cities 
breed vice. It is not good to think of ; then truth is 
rarely agreeable. To-morrow, good Pont, we shall 
see Dave and Betty — two human beings whose 
hearts and minds are like the air from the ocean — 
pure. Intercourse with the world, means death to 
one's peace of mind. Worldliness is a microbe that 
first attacks belief; the conscience then gives way; 
and what is left is not worth recording. We will 
go to bed, Pont, for we must be astir early on the 
morrow." 

The following morning the first burst of sunlight 
moved Pont to proclaim that it was time to rise, 
and in energetic tones he called to his master. Not 
content with his vocal efforts, he pushed his cold 
nose into the sleeper's face, and growled his dis- 
approval of all laggards. It had been some time 
since they had seen the sun rise, and, as the dog 
sniffed the cool, dew-laden air, he longed to renew 
his youth — also to renew certain out-of-door ac- 
quaintances. 


i6o 


THE FOOL, 


His jnaster was soon with him, and together they 
walked through a nearby wood. The dew dripped 
from the leaves. They filled their lungs with the 
pure, moist air; and the earthy smell of the early 
morning they welcomed as an old friend. Pont tore 
through the underbrush, mad with joy at his release 
from restraint, and his master allowed him the lux- 
ury of his freedom unchecked. 

After returning home, and drinking a cup of 
coffee, they started for Dave’s. It was not without 
trepidation that The Fool anticipated his interview 
with the fisherman; but he determined that, what- 
ever might come, he would not disclose Nan’s true 
position — ^besides, he might wrong her. He had 
only outward appearances to judge from; for, apart 
from Nan’s confession of love for Chentington, and 
the knowledge that Chentington had deserted her, 
he had nothing but his own belief to guide his judg- 
ment. Whatever the results, he determined to keep 
from Dave such knowledge as had come to him. 

Filled with this determination he crossed the lawn 
in front of Dave’s home, and was met with a roar 
that sent the blood to his face and joy to his heart — 
for the fisherman was very dear to him. But this 
greeting did not suffice. The fisherman grasped 
the fingers he held in his great paw. He roared 
and laughed again, and clapped him on the back 


O'HE FOOL RETURNS TO OLDFLEET. i6 


with such force as would surely have knocked him 
down, had he not been supported by the hand that 
was still held in a vice-like grasp. 

The roar having subsided into a chuckle Dave 
managed to articulate : 

''Yer dern little cuss! To run away in this man- 
ner, and never say a word to yer Uncle Dave. Ho! 
Yer rascal! An’ ter go ter New York. I knowed 
yer wer’ then’ Betty got a letter from Nan last 
night.” 

The Fool, smilingly examining his fingers, held 
them up before Dave. The blood had been forced 
out of them, and they clung together. 

'^Davie, I may wish to use that hand again.” 

'Tf yer don’t come inter th’ house, an’ tell me all 
about New York and Nan, I’ll squeeze th’ life out of 
yer.” 

The fisherman, looking down upon his companion 
with affectionate regard, led the way to the house. 
Once inside he hurled a volley of questions at his 
companion — not waiting for a reply to any of 
them — roared, laughed, and pounded the table vig- 
orously ; and, after reiterating ''Lemmie, I wouldn’t 
a believed thet yer wer’ sech a little sly cuss, goin’ 
ter New York without sayin’ a word ter yer Uncle 
Davie,” composed himself to listen. 

The Fool laughed heartily. The gaze which the 


i 62 


THE FOOL. 


fisherman fixed upon him was of womanly tender- 
ness; and with the laughing, mischievous spirit of 
youth, he spoke with open candor. Nothing was 
hidden. The eyes proclaimed the thought before 
the tongue could articulate. To the buffets of the 
world, the fisherman had been impervious, and mid- 
dle age found him with a child’s heart. 

The Fool told him as much as possible of Nan and 
her affairs without exciting the fisherman’s fears or 
suspicions. He described her personal appearance in 
general terms ; laid stress on the fact that it was no 
easy matter to get an opening in the theatrical pro- 
fession ; and finished by delivering the love messages 
she had bade him give to her Uncle Dave. 

A soft light shone in the fisherman’e eyes, and, as 
he spoke, his voice reflected the depth of his feel- 
ings. 

‘‘An’ she still thinks of her Uncle Davie! Poor 
Nannie! Some day she’ll be a great actress, an’ then 
perhaps she’ll be ashamed of th’ big, lumbering 
fisherman that toted her in his arms ’long th’ beach. 
No, she won’t !” he exclaimed almost fiercely. His 
tone was altered, and he looked fixedly at his com- 
panion. “She won’t ! after what she wrote to Betty, 
she’ll always think the same of me. Lemmie,” he 
grasped The Fool’s hand that lay on the table, “yer 
a good boy an’ God bless yer. I don’t know what 


THE FOOL RETURNS TO OLDFLEET, 163 

I'd do ef anything should happen to Nannie. If 
any wrong should come to her — God ! If any man 
deceived her — I'd tear his heart out! D'yer hear, 
Lemmie? I'd tear his heart out! There, there, don't 
mind me, boy. I'm alone so much, an' I think." 

He turned away and, going to the door, called to 
Pont and his hound frolicking in the rear of the 
house. 

The Fool shuddered. As the thought of the 
possibility that Nan might be wronged crossed the 
fisherman's mind, there was revealed to The Fool 
the intense, passionate nature of the man whom he 
believed he knew, and knew well. 

The dogs bounded into the room — Pont being 
the aggressor. Dave's hound stood at the door, 
which was as far as he dared venture. His master, 
out of regard for his visitor, allowed him to come 
in. Pont was checked in his clamorous greeting, 
until Dave interposed. 

‘'Let 'em go it, Lemmie. Ponty don't come every 
day. Besides he's been ter New York. Pont," 
said Dave, “How'd yer like the big city?" 

Pont raised his head proudly and, for answer, 
gave back three decisive negatives. 

“Yes," said his master quietly, “he managed to 
run away and caused me an amount of worry and 
trouble." 


i64 


THE FOOL. 


Pont hung his head shamefacedly, and, going un- 
der the table, lay down, much to the surprise of 
Dave’s hound, who was ready to frolic. 

‘‘You don’t say!” exclaimed Dave. 

“Indeed he did,” said his master, “I went out one 
evening and left him in the care of the landlady. 
He was untied, and the moment she opened the door 
he ran away. He came back the next morning.” 

“Why, Pont,” said Dave, “I wouldn’t hev be- 
lieved it of yer.” 

Pont did not reply. 

“Th’ Squire wer’ down ter see me th’ other day. 
Says he’s got ter hev his interest or he’ll foreclose.” 
The fisherman laughed as though he were reciting a 
good joke. “I sometimes think I’ll give him a 
ducking, or a good shaking up when he comes a 
botherin’ me. I wonder ef he could stand it. He’s 
pretty far gone. Ef I thought th’ old wreck 
would’nt die on my hands, don’t know but it would 
be a public charity. What d’yer think, Lemmie?” 

The Fool smiled. He knew that, regardless of 
consequences, it would be like Dave to scare the old 
man; but he also knew the Squire would resort to 
legal measures for redress. 

“No, not quite that,” laughed The Fool. 

“Lemmie, yer heven’t told me how yer like New 
York.” 


THE FOOL RETURNS TO OLDFLEET. 165 


don’t like it,” came the prompt answer. It is 
not for me or for you, Davie. They know too much 
or too little ; and what they do know dwarfs the soul 
and leaves the heart and mind in chaos. We are 
happy here; though we don’t know all that may be 
learned in a great city — It is well for us that we do 
not. I never realized how happy we ought to be 
till I returned home. I am now content. Davie, 
try and induce Nan to come home.” 

^'D’yer think she would come, Lemmie ?” 

“Yes, she would be happier here.” 

They discussed the prospect of Nan’s return for 
some time. Not knowing the change that had come 
to her, except as disclosed in Betty’s letter, Dave 
could not conceive it possible that she would vol- 
untarily relinquish her stage career. To his simple 
mind it was enough for her to go to New York 
with the intention of becoming an actress, for her 
to be already tasting the sweets of a public career. 
He did not know that material reward comes to but 
few, and that the road to success is strewn with the 
wreck of hopes and ambitions of those who have 
fallen by the way. To him these details were un- 
known. He saw only the side that Nan had 
painted, in colors blended of youthful ignorance and 
girlish conceit. 

The Fool went on his way to the village. He 


i66 


THE FOOL. 


had many messages to deliver from Nan to Betty; 
and it was with satisfaction that he saw Betty at the 
open window. 

He entered by the front gate and she came to 
meet him. 

‘‘Lem/’ she said, holding out her hand, '^you don’t 
know how glad I am to see you.” 

‘‘How do you know I don’t?” he laughed; then 
with a quizzical look: “I know some one you’d 
rather see.” 

“Whom?” Her look of assumed surprise gave a 
piquancy to her beauty that stirred the heart of her 
questioner. 

“Now, Betty, how can you expect point or mean- 
ing to what a fool says. Let me see! I said that 
you would rather see some one else. Whom did you 
say you would rather see than The Fool ?” 

“Whom did I say? I didn’t say.” 

“True. Yet it isn’t what a woman says. Her 
eyes speak first — -what she says with her tongue is 
an afterthought. For all purposes of truth, a 
woman might be dumb.” 

“What are you talking about, Lemmie?” she 
laughed. 

“The truth,” he answered with a smile, “after you 
had told me that there was another you would 


THE FOOL RETURNS TO OLDFLEET. 167 


rather see, you said — and most graciously — that 
you were glad to see me/’ 

''But I didn’t say it,” she insisted. 

"Betty, why did you look up the road before you 
spoke to me ? Ah ! Love speaks through the eyes, and 
the laggard tongue only plays a child’s part.” He 
shook his finger at her. Betty blushed rosy red and 
tried to laugh away her confusion. The Fool re- 
garded her with a merry twinkle and joined in her 
laughter. "Now,” he said, "that you have con- 
fessed ” 

"But I haven’t confessed,” she persisted. 

"Then truly those roses in your cheeks must have 
spoken falsely, for they said almost audibly that I 
was correct. Oh, woman, woman, why did Nature 
endow you with beauty that is your undoing? First 
your eyes betray you, then the cheeks flash an as- 
surance before you invoke the power of speech — 
which is altogether useless — for a denial. Now to 
business. Nan sent a hundred messages which I 
can deliver, and a thousand kisses which I will dele- 
gate to Dave, as her next of kin, to see that they are 
not misapplied.” 

Betty refused to notice the allusion to the fisher- 
man, and insisted on hearing all he had to tell about 
Nan. 

He told her the story of Nan’s life in New York, 


THE FOOL. 


i6S 

but in language tender and delicate. Not alluding 
to Chentington, he spoke of her fruitless ef- 
forts, of her present sorrowful, lonely existence; 
and when he had finished, though the tears trickled 
down Betty's cheeks, he left her in ignorance of the 
cause of Nan's unhappy condition — her hopeless 
struggle and failure. He begged her to write and 
induce Nan to return; giving for his reason her in- 
ability to succeed, her changed appearance and ap- 
parently poor health. 

Betty listened, and when he had finished, taking 
his hand in her own, with eyelashes still wet, in a 
voice that she struggled to control, she tried to 
thank him. 

‘‘Lem," she said, “how good you are, how kind. 
I will write to Nan to-day. Poor, poor Nan." 

“There, there, Betty, don't be downhearted, and 
don't forget what I told you about the eyes. Some 
one will be over to-day, and he may make the same 
discovery." Then laughing merrily he joined Pont 
who was waiting impatiently outside the gate. 

“Come Pont, we will go to the village and call 
upon the Squire. I'm not certain, Pont Carnet, but 
I believe him to be the meanest man alive. Dave 
wishes to shake him physically. I'll try a different 
method." 


CHAPTER XII. 


RETRIBUTION OVERTAKES THE SQUIRE. 

They walked slowly toward the village. Pont 
was greeted by those whom they met with a warmth, 
in striking contrast to the slight bow of recogni- 
tion his master received. But the dog returned 
their civility with contemptuous disregard, for he 
would have none of them ; and his master smiled. 

The day was warm, but a cool east wind from the 
ocean tempered the heat that radiated from the 
sandy soil. There were many strangers in town, 
and when they entered the village, they were passed 
by these unheeded. The Fool's visit to New York 
was unknown to the villagers ; and he received from 
them, as usual, only ordinary notice and scant cour- 
tesy. 

After calling at the Post-Office they turned in the 
direction of the Squire's office. 

It had been a long time since The Fool had had 
occasion to visit the money lender. After the death 
of The Fool's father, the Squire had taken charge 
of the estate. What the amount of that estate was. 


170 


THE FOOL. 


he alone knew, as, beside the homestead where The 
Fool now lived, the balance was in personalty, and 
this had been turned over to The Fool many years 
before. In business matters his father had been lax 
almost to rashness. He had entrusted his property 
to the Squire for investment and safe keeping, and 
when it had come into The Fool’s possession, it had 
been indexed according to the Squire’s conscience. 

The Fool had always been convinced that he had 
been robbed by the wily Squire ; but, up to the pres- 
ent time, evidence of guilt was lacking; for the old 
man’s fear of the law had whetted his knowledge 
of ways to evade it. His fear guided his cunning; 
and he defied those who accused him of crooked 
dealing — inviting them to seek legal redress. This, 
he assured them, the law would give with ready 
hand to those who would satisfy it that their claim 
was a just one. 

The Fool had never been satisfied. He had said 
nothing, but, in his quiet way, he had continued a 
course of investigation and discovery that extended 
over a period of years. 

Entering the open door, he stood upon the thres- 
hold of the Squire’s office. The money lender was 
sitting at his desk, and looked up as The Fool en- 
tered. 

‘‘Em. What now. Fool? Don’t let that dirty 


RETRIBUTION OVERTAKES THE SQUIRE. 171 

dog in here.” The Squire's aversion to dogs had 
its birth in fear. 

'‘Em!” replied Font's master, imitating the 
Squire's exclamation to a nicety. “That dog is 
endowed with a soul; therein is he your superior. 
Besides, the flesh on your bony legs wouldn't tempt 
him.” 

“I'll hold you liable,” piped the Squire, “I don't 
like dogs Em.” 

“He loves you less than you do him. He never 
disobeys me; yet I'll warrant that were I to set him 
on to bite you, he'd refuse. The dog's mouth is 
clean. See, I'll prove it to you. Pont.” 

The dog sprang to his master's side, every hair 
on his back erect, his eyes fixed on the Squire. 

The old man trembled with fear. He glanced 
quickly toward the office entrance, but the dog 
barred his exit in that direction. The Fool laughed 
and pointed to the door, and Pont lay on the thres- 
hold ; but his eyes said plainly that he was ready for 
an ernergency. 

“Em. What do you mean by this ? It's an out- 
rage. I don't know which is the bigger fool, you 
or the dog. Em.” 

“Which is evidence of childhood's wisdom. At 
least, you should be able to recognize the disparity 
in our intellects. The dog's sane. Aye! even I 


172 


THG FOOL. 


recognize that. You, old addlqpate, will yet be as 
mad as I — of a dog's bite; if the fangs of the law 
do not first fasten upon your withered carcass." 

The old man glared. He feared The Fool, for 
he believed him mad. ‘What is your business?" 
he asked. He steadied his voice with an effort. 

“How can a fool have business? The law doesn’t 
recognize fools. Must I teach you your Blackstone? 
It is there recited that fools are infants; also that 
those who cheat them are worse than knaves. What 
think you of that, disciple of the devil?" 

“That’s true," said the Squire. He shifted un- 
easily in his chair and eyed his visitor with alarm. 

“Hence, it is decreed that you shall pass your re- 
maining years in jail." 

The Fool’s tone was bantering. His smile told 
plainly that he enjoyed the discomfiture of the 
money-lender, who was visibly affected, though he 
struggled to repress any outward show of fear. He 
attempted to laugh, but his mirth was sepulchral, 
and died into his customary cough. The eyes that 
were fixed upon him never left his face, and with 
difficulty the old man controlled his nervousness. 

“Em," he said, with his bony fingers over his 
thin lips. “You joke too broadly. Tell me your 
business. I’m going out." 

“You have my consent to go; — my dog’s is not 


RETRIBUTION OVERTAKES THE SQUIRE, 173 

SO readily obtained. Ask him and see what he 
says.’’ 

‘‘Have done with this — I’ll not stand it. This is 
my house. I order you to go away ; and take your 
devil’s dog with you.” 

“Certainly,” replied The Fool blandly, “if you in- 
sist.” He turned to the door as if to leave. 

“Em,” piped the voice behind him, “you came 
here on business. What is it ?” 

“Oh,” The Fool turned his head and looked back 
at the old man, “I can conduct our business fully as 
well in court, or in jail.” 

“Em! Court! Jail! What do you mean? Sit 
down.” 

The Fool remained standing. He looked at the 
old man, whose eyes, at the words court and jail, 
dilated with fear. He was the picture of abjectness ; 
and the attempt he made to appear unconcerned was 
ludicrous. 

“Why, you have no fear of courts or jails,” said 
his visitor. 

“Em; of course not. Em. Now. Your busi- 
ness.” 

The Fool lost no further time. 

“You have a mortgage on Dave Kurran’s house 
and boat,” he said. 


174 


THE FOOL. 


‘'Yes. Not very good security. Not very good. 
Em.’’ 

“At three per cent per month?” 

“Yes, small rate for the risk. Em. What is it 
to you? Em.” 

The Fool laughed. “Not much,” he answered 
calmly. “Only you will hand me over the mortgage 
satisfied; also a release from all claims.” 

The Squire sat speechless for a full minute. 
Then his cackling laugh dissolved into his custom- 
ary cough. He eyed his visitor with suspicion ; for 
he felt that such a demand would not be idly made. 
There were transactions years and years ago, after 
the death of The Fool’s father, that rose before him; 
and his heart seemed to cease beating. Through 
physical weakness he remained silent — his watery 
eyes fixed upon the half smiling countenance before 
him. Yet this show of weakness would not do. 
With an effort and a sickly smile, he spoke : 

“Fool, you are madder than I thought.” 

“True,” came the smiling response. “Were I as 
sane as my dog, you would not be here now.” 

“Em ! Tut, tut. No more of this ! What do you 
mean by all this mad talk ?” 

“Squire White,” The Fool’s voice took on a new 
ring, “in five minutes I shall leave this office. 
Whatever business we transact must be concluded 


RETRIBUTION OVERTAKES THE SQUIRE. 175 

before that time. There was a bond of five thous- 
and dollars ’’ 

'T never had such a bond!’’ The old man 
shrieked the words. He tried to raise himself on 
the chair, but fell back trembling — terror stamped 
on his features. 

‘‘Did I say you had?” asked the visitor calmly. 
“Why do you accuse yourself?” The smile which 
accompanied the words was tinged with contempt, 
for the money lender was shaking with fear. He 
continued: “The interest on that bond you have 
collected for twelve years. You will deduct the 
amount of Dave’s mortgage from the sum total. 
The mortgage I will take to-day ; the money balance 
due me you shall deliver to me to-morrow.” 

The fear of parting with such a sum of money 
lent the old man strength. He rose quickly from 
the chair. Pont growled; but before his pros- 
pective loss the money lender’s fear of the dog had 
departed. 

“Bah!” he exclaimed, excitedly, “you have no 
proof! You are a bigger fool than I thought!” 

The Fool laughed softly. He turned to the door. 

“Five minutes is up. Squire. Good day.” 

The old man grasped his sleeve as he was about 
to pass into the hall. 

“Stop. Come back.” His voice was unnatural. 


176 


THE FOOL. 


“Come back — ^you have made a mistake. The bond 
is mine. I — I bought it of your father. I ” 

Pont had gone ahead when his master started to 
leave the office. He now returned, and glared his 
disapproval at the trembling figure standing before 
them. 

The Fool interrupted the Squire. 

“Enough! You lying, thieving, old rascal! Do 
you think I would make this claim without proof?” 
He drew a paper yellow with age from his pocket. 
“Look at that signature.” He held the paper before 
the old man. 

It was instinct, not judgment, that impelled the 
Squire to reach out his bony hand with cat-like 
quickness to grasp the paper. It may have been the 
same instinct that impelled Pont to spring at the old 
man’s throat, succeeding only in fastening his teeth 
in his coat, and dragging him to the floor. A word 
from his master sent Pont into the hall, from where 
he growled his disapproval of the whole proceeding, 
especially his master lifting the Squire to his feet, 
and depositing him in the capacious chair. 

“Hereafter,” said The Fool to the shrivelled heap 
in the chair, “beware of dogs that have a fool for a 
master. They recognize their responsibility. Do 
you wish me to take the mortgage now?” 


RETRIBUTION OVERTAKES THE SQUIRE. 177 

‘'You — you will not prosecute?'’ wailed the 
Squire. 

“I will take the mortgage and what is due me. 
Beyond that I promise nothing.” 

In ten minutes’ time The Fool was on his way back 
to Dave’s, and Pont, expecting a reprimand, rolled 
his eyes furtively to get a glance of his master’s 
face. He received, instead, an affectionate pat on 
the head, and knowing that it meant forgiveness, 
bolted over a three-foot stone wall, and around to 
the rear of Betty’s home in hilarious glee. Here 
more caresses were bestowed upon him, and he men- 
tally concluded that attacking the Squire was pro- 
ductive of nothing but good. Hereafter he would 
allow no opportunity to pass unimprovd. 

The Fool went by Betty’s house, lifting his hat to 
her as she smiled a greeting from the garden. He 
was soon joined by Pont, radiantly happy, conscious 
of having been kissed by Betty. 

“Pont,” spoke his master, “what ought we to do 
with Squire White?” Pont showed his teeth. His 
master shook his head. “No violence — that won’t 
do,” he answered to Pont’s suggestion. “He is a 
rascal,” he continued, “shrivelled in body and soul. 
He’s not fit to live ; much less is he prepared to die. 
I wonder what his exact status will be when he does 
die. Money has brought many men to perdition — 


178 


THE FOOL. 


many more to jail. The worst, however, escape. 
If it weren’t for money. Heaven would not be a 
vague uncertainty after death; and the preachers 
would till the soil, and not the souls of men. Before 
this world is three hundred years older, money, as 
a value, will have passed into history. It’s the power 
of the bayonet that keeps it at par value to-day. 
Pont, there’s Dave. Go and tell him I’ve good news 
for him.” 

Pont bounded away and threw himself upon 
Dave, who chased him about the lawn, and forgot 
for the moment that the dog’s master was waiting to 
speak to him. Pont enjoyed it and, apparently, so 
did the fisherman. 

The Fool looked on smiling. “He gave the 
Squire quite a different reception,” he said with a 
laugh. “Fixed his teeth in the old man’s coat and 
pulled him to the floor.” 

Dave was sitting on the grass. “He didn’t !” he 
said incredulously. 

“Indeed he did,” rejoined The Fool. 

“Pont,” said Dave, “come here and let me kiss 
you.” The dog obeyed. “There,” continued the 
fisherman, “yer a good old Pont, but the next time 
bite him.” 

“Here,” said The Fool, tossing the mortgage on 
the ground to Dave, “there’s the mortgage. Burn it 


RETRIBUTION OVERTAKES THE SQUIRE. 179 


when you go into the house. I will file the dis- 
charge. You can pay me any time.’' 

.Dave picked up the document and sprang to his 
feet. Not comprehending the full import of what 
had been said, he looked first at the mortgage, then 
at his companion. 

‘‘I don’t understand,” he said simply, ‘‘what is it, 
Lemmie?” 

“Nothing much,” came the reply. “I had some 
business with the Squire and took up the mortgage. 
That’s all. Come, Pont.” 

Dave did not trust himself to speak, and they 
walked toward the house. 

“Yer’ll come over ter-morrer, Lemmie?” he said. 
“We’ll talk it over then.” 

“Yes,” said The Fool, and, with Pont, started for 
home. 


CHAPTER XIIL 


WILL WIN HIM BACK.” 

It was not in Nan’s nature to surrender herself to 
a hopeless passion. A desire to win, even to com- 
mand the love of Chentington, took possession of 
her ; a fierce determination to succeed dominated her 
being; that she would conquer by the power of love, 
became a belief. The purpose to win her way in the 
profession she had chosen, grew from desire into 
determination. To the man who, because she had 
failed in her efforts, confessed that he no longer 
loved her, she would, by success, prove her right to 
his love. Each succeeding day only fixed her re- 
solve the more firmly ; and the fierce expression in 
her eyes told of her struggle. Yet this same strug- 
gle and determination was not without results. She 
had found a motive for success, and every look, ges- 
ture, and tone of her voice, proclaimed her earnest- 
ness, that gave promise of immediate results. 

Those upon whom she depended for advancement 
noted indications of a latent talent, which before, 
they had not believed she possessed. At one of the 


‘7 WILL WIN HIM BACK.” i8i 

leading theatres, Nan had been given a minor part in 
a new play which was to open the fall season. She 
had accepted the role with a feeling of humiliation, 
believing her ability called for greater things ; but it 
was a beginning, and she gladly accepted it. 
Though not unschooled in the art of acting, her 
efforts, heretofore, had been of a perfunctory na- 
ture, even amounting to indifference. To the part 
given her, she now brought such sincerity of pur- 
pose as to command the attention of the manager. 
What had wrought the change? To* those whose 
judgment of her abilities had been formed by her 
first endeavors, this was inexplicable. The indiffer- 
ence with which she had first been accepted, 
gave place to astonishment. This was fol- 
lowed by an interest as marked as it was sincere. 
Ability in theatres, as elsewhere, commands respect 
that is its due; and Nan, after the first few re- 
hearsals, was marked for better things. The con- 
ception of the part was her own, and, at each suc- 
ceeding rehearsal, she added a finish and artistic 
touch that comes not alone from schooling. 

It was the month following her last interview 
with Chentington. The daily rehearsal had been 
finished. The temper of one of the leading mem- 
bers of the company had been productive of a dis- 
agreement, which had threatened an open rupture; 


THE FOOL. 


182 

and disorganization seemed to have taken posses- 
sion of all concerned. A leading actress had ideas 
of the reading of her lines distinctively her own, 
and refused to conform to the wishes of the author. 
She ignored the suggestions given, and the question 
resolved into whether she would surrender her opin- 
ion or play the character as directed. The result, 
after a stormy scene, was that the obdurate member 
announced her intention of giving up the part. The 
manager was firm, the author declared that her con- 
ception would ruin the play; and there the case 
rested. 

After the rehearsal, the manager and the author 
considered the predicament in which they found 
themselves. All the leading actresses in the city 
were under engagement, and it was a case of con- 
ceding the point, and accepting the rebellious mem- 
ber’s interpretation, or calling to their assistance 
some untried novice. The discussion had been un- 
der way but a few moments when Nan’s name was 
mentioned by the manager. 

'‘She looks the part to perfection. There has been 
something about her the past week that I cannot 
fathom. What little she has to do, she does with a 
finish that is remarkable.” 

"We might give her a trial,” the other rejoined. 


‘7 WILL WIN HIM BACKr 183 

^‘judging from her work, I would not fear to entrust 
her with it.” 

‘'Why not send for her now? it might insure 
us against disaster on the opening night.” A mes- 
senger and a cab were dispatched for Nan, and she 
presented herself at the theatre. 

“Yes, she could memorize the part readily 
enough ; in fact she was, should occasion arise, fa- 
miliar enough with the lines to go on with the re- 
hearsal the following day.” 

With the part in her possession she returned 
home ; and during the rest of the day and 
throughout the night, she worked at memorizing 
the lines. 

The following day she reported at the theatre. 
Every one present, however, seemed to realize that 
something was about to happen ; but doubt was not 
of long duration. The recalcitrant member, feel- 
ing her position secure, with an offensive show of 
independence, maintained her position; and the re- 
hearsal came to an abrupt standstill. Nan was 
called upon without further ado, and the play pro- 
ceeded. 

Knowing what was expected of her, she had the 
wisdom to conform to the instruction given, and in- 
vested the part with a subtlety and intensity of 
power, that proved her thorough mastery of the 


184 


THE FOOL. 


role. Nor was this all. Had she trod the boards 
of the stage from childhood, had she enjoyed the 
tutorage of those whose business it is to make act- 
resses by the very force of personal magnetism, she 
could not have made the effort with more con- 
fidence. If her nerves, after a night of incessant 
study, were strung to the danger point, neither by 
word nor act did she betray it. If joy took posses- 
sion of her — the joy of feeling that opportunity was 
at last hers — filled her with an ecstasy of delight, 
it was not suggested either by manner or bearing. 
An indomitable will held her feelings in restraint. 
She was, to all appearances, the calmest member of 
the company. She was fighting her fight for love’s 
sake, and nothing should stand between her purpose 
and success. Her suffering! That was past. The 
god of opportunity had rapped at her door, and 
opened the way to win back the love that, however 
unworthy, was the one desire left her. With the 
part she was in sympathy, for there was sorrow, 
humiliation, to portray. These emotions were at 
her command, and she had only to give rein to her 
own life-passions to fully meet what was expected 
of her. 

The rehearsal had progressed but a few minutes 
when manager and author exchanged glances, 
which, had Nan been observant, would have told her 


‘7 WILL WIN HIM BACKr 185 

their unspoken opinion — that success marked her 
efforts. But her ability was yet to be tested in a 
scene which would call for power, and a finish that 
would tax the ability of one experienced in the 
art. The manager had waited with some trepida- 
tion for the scene, for it was, in fact, the climax of 
the play ; but Nan approached it with a sure touch. 
In only one respect did she proclaim herself the nov- 
ice — she made no attempt to save herself, and en- 
tered into her work with nervous energy. She be- 
gan the scene quietly, but, as it proceeded, no doubt 
of her ability was left in the minds of those 
interested. 

The rehearsal finished, with flushed cheek, but 
eyes that told of emotions other than pleasure, she 
listened to words of praise with a calmness and un- 
responsive demeanor that was almost repellent. She 
had succeeded, yes, that she knew; but would it 
bring back the man she loved ? 

Since Nan had lived in New York, she had met 
many of Chentington's acquaintances and, since her 
introduction to the theatre, many admirers. Her 
beauty alone was not what had attracted them, for 
a piquancy of manner, and her brilliant conversa- 
tional powers, drew to her a class at once artistic 
and intellectual. The Bohemian side of this exist- 
ence appealed to her, and she was having a taste of 


t86 


THE FOOL. 


the life where women of talent, as well as women of 
beauty, shine; but those who sought a closer inti- 
macy, met with only tantalizing indifference. 

On the night of her successful rehearsal, in com- 
pany with a gentleman who was one of Chenting- 
ton’s intimates, she dined at one of the fashionable 
cafes. Later in the evening they were to attend a 
roof garden concert. Nan’s escort was connected 
with the theatrical world — a man of wealth and 
prominence. Though she consented to accompany 
him, it was almost with a feeling of repugnance that 
she viewed the prospect of an evening in his com- 
pany; but a woman’s pride prompted her to accept 
the invitation. She would prove to the man she 
loved that she treated lightly his desertion of her; 
and the possibility of meeting Chentington filled her 
with feverish expectancy. 

The excitement of the day, the anticipation of 
seeing her lover, seemed to arouse her to her old 
self. An unusual light in her eyes added to her 
beauty ; though to one who knew her well, she could 
but appear unnatural. 

As she anticipated, before they had been seated 
many minutes, Chentington, with a party of ladies 
and gentlemen, entered the cafe and seated him- 
self at a table not far from where she was dining. 
Her manner and conversation became more animat- 


7 WILL WIN HIM BACK! 


187 


ed, and her companion listened with admiration and 
pleasure. Upon entering, Chentington had bowed 
to Nan, and had bent his head slightly to her escort 
in token of recognition. Taking a seat where he 
could see her face, he watched her narrowly. He 
was quick to note every word and gesture, and lis- 
tened eagerly to the vivacious repartee into which 
she had entered with her escort. 

‘‘And so you have the second lead?'’ Nan's com- 
panion asked. 

‘‘Yes," she replied, “for the moment." 

“I trust," he said, “your good luck will maintain 
your position." 

“It will," she answered with a laugh, “until " 

“Yes?" 

“Until I have the lead." She laughed softly, mis- 
chievously. 

It was a laugh Chentington well remembered, and 
it reminded him of a Spring night at Oldfleet when, 
with tantalizing unconcern, she had laughed at his 
love vows. He was watching her features, and 
marvelled at the change that seemed to have come 
over her. Her eyes sparkled with animation; and 
the wine, which she sipped, sent the color to her 
cheeks. Chentington took but little part in the 
gossipy small talk of his companions, for his ear 
was engaged with the fragments of conversation 


i88 


THE FOOL, 


which passed between Nan and her escort. Though 
he was guarded in his conduct, no look or gesture 
escaped him, and, as he noted the return of her old- 
time beauty and buoyancy of spirit, he was lost in 
a maze of conjectures as to the cause. 

''But you don’t realize,” said Nan’s companion, 
"your extreme good fortune. For one to make 
her debut in a leading part, is uncommon enough 
to awaken the interest of even the audience.” 

"Yes?” she laughed. "But I fear I am insatiable, 
for, really, already I have treasonable designs upon 
the lead.” 

"What?” rejoined her companion, "even before 
your debut?” She smiled but did not reply. 

Chentington’s attention, meantime, was divided 
between Nan and his own party. He endeavored 
to answer their questions regarding Nan, for her 
advancement was the topic they were discussing. 
He could tell them but little. At first he could not 
believe what he had heard of Nan’s good fortune; 
and he was not ready to admit that his judgment 
had been led astray. More, he looked upon her 
coming debut with skeptical anticipation, even with 
a feeling of satisfaction; for he could not believe 
that she possessed the ability to warrant the man- 
ager in selecting her for the part. 


‘7 WILL WIN HIM BACK.” 189 

‘‘How did she happen to secure the position?’’ 
one of his companions asked. 

“It’s beyond me,” Chentington replied. “She do 
the part? She hasn’t the training; neither has she 
the natural ability. The management must be 
blind.” 

“Don’t believe it,” was the answer. H can 

scent talent. He’s a wizard. I believe he could 
discover ability in a dead man — if he ever possessed 
it while living. Don’t bank on his mistakes. If 
H has given her the part, she can do it.” 

Chentington laughed scoffiingly. “You forget 
that I, too, once believed she could act. I dis- 
covered my mistake. She’ll make a fiasco.” 

His eyes, however, were fixed upon Nan. She 
had never appeared to him more beautiful. She 
was tastefully gowned, and the soft lights brought 
out the beauty of her features, giving a soft flush 
to her cheeks and brilliancy to her eyes. Chenting- 
ton marvelled, and well he might, for in the crowded 
cafe. Nan was the object of open admiration. 

As the party were about to depart, they paused 
before where Nan was sitting to exchange greetings. 
Chentington was talking to her companion while 
the ladies of the party were congratulating her upon 
her advancement. 


190 


THE FOOL, 


''I shall not offer my congratulations until the 
opening night/' Chentington said. 

''Conservative, always," Nan rejoined. "You 
see," she said, addressing the others, "Mr. Chenting- 
ton will not commit himself to even the possibility 
of my success. His judgment is founded on the 
knowledge of my true worth — which goes to prove,’* 
she laughed, "that managers are not always infal- 
lible." 

"Oh no," protested Chentington, with assumed 
warmth, "I do not mean to imply " 

"Of course not," Nan answered, "Men never in- 
tend to betray their opinions. However, inferences 
can be gathered from what they do not say. I shall 
array myself on the side of the management, and try 
to prove your judgment in error." 

"Do you like the part?" some one asked. 

"Dear me! I haven't considered. I like the oppor- 
tunity. If I grasp that according to its true worth, 
I shall be satisfied. Of necessity, the part must go 
with it. I have no right to complain, yet I criti- 
cise " 

"Yes?" interrogated the first speaker. 

"The judgment of the manager," laughed Nan, 
"had he consulted Mr. Chentington, I should still 
be playing the chambermaid, and wielding the 
duster most eloquently." 


‘7 WILL WIN HIM BACKr 191 

‘‘You wrong me/’ Chentington protested. I ” 

“My dear Mr. Chentington,” laughed Nan, “take 
the safe course, and don’t commit yourself until 
after the opening night. It is much pleasanter to 
maintain old opinions than form new ones. Be- 
sides, like a mushroom, talent sprouts in a night. 
Its life may be no more lasting.” 

“We are going to one of the roof gardens, won’t 
you come along?” asked one of the ladies. 

Nan’s companion interrogated her with his eyes. 

“I should enjoy it,” Nan replied, rising. 

They passed out to the street, and, as the distance 
was short, walked down Broadway to one of the 
fashionable theatres. Nan was the life of the party, 
and her companions listened to her with pleasure, 
and that respect which is an homage paid to recog- 
nized talent. 

Never would Nan play a part such as she was now 
acting. As she chattered and laughed with her 
companions, she felt Chentington’s eyes upon her; 
and her effort at self-control was almost super- 
human. She was playing a part which called for 
the exercise of all her faculties — she was proving 
to the man she loved that she had forgotten him — 
while her heart was as lead, and her laugh almost 
choked her. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


'^MY FIRST AND LAST ROLE.’’ 

Time went by, and each day brought the opening 
night of the theatrical season the nearer. Or- 
dinarily, one placed in Nan’s position would antici- 
pate the ordeal with trepidation, if not with actual 
alarm. Not so Nan. The incentive which led her on 
to success was primarily her one thought, her one 
desire; and the method by which this was to be ac- 
complished was but a means to an end. Hence it 
was that she felt no nervousness — no other emotion 
than a fixed determination to succeed. She viewed 
the approach of the opening night calmly, and with 
a confidence that, at rehearsals, brought out all the 
power of which she was capable. 

She often went out in public. Accompanied by 
the gentleman with whom she had met Chentington 
at the cafe, she dined nightly, with a number of 
friends, at one of the fashionable hotels. She was 
much sought after. Among her intimates, her 
rapid advance gave her a position of prominence 
that her seniors by many years, in her profession, 


MY FIRST AND LAST ROLE. 


193 


might envy. But not a heart-beat quickened at the 
Avords of flattery she heard; and she would return 
to her rooms at night tired and sorrowful, for the 
reaction, after her enforced gaiety, racked her 
nerves, and sleep refused to come at her bidding 

One thought, one purpose dominated her — ^to 
again win Chentington; nor did she lack evidence 
of his returning interest, and a desire on his part to 
renew their former friendly relations. He kept in 
close touch with people whose opinion he was forced 
to accept as authoritative, and he was not slow to 
perceive that the woman whom he had proclaimed 
a failure, was being recognized by those whose judg- 
ment was sought and respected. Though he would 
not acknowledge his error, still he watched with 
keen interest Nan’s growing popularity. Besides, 
she was seen nightly in company with society 
people, which, in itself, was an indorsement. 

Again financial success seemed to wait upon him, 
and, though he pursuaded himself that his doings 
were not influenced by a desire to make a display 
before Nan, he always managed that his extrava- 
gances would be noticeable when he chanced to 
meet her. Their hour for dining became fixed ; and 
they often met. It was not uncommon that they 
sat at the same table; for with Nan’s escort, Chen- 
tington was on terms of easy familiarity. 


194 


THE FOOL. 


Nan, meantime, was continuing her struggle. In 
public, and always when in Chentington’s company, 
she was light-hea,rted and vivacious, her sallies of 
wit commanding the admiration of her companions. 
But with the end of the dinner, or an evening at a 
roof garden concert, came a change that, to her es- 
cort, was almost an effront. She was preoccupied, 
and distant in her manner. She seemed another 
being, and treated him with a chilly formality that 
forbade anything approaching closer intimacy. His 
words of flattery were met with disdainful laughter; 
and his attempt to enlist a tender emotion recoiled 
upon him with ridicule. 

It was the night before her debut. With her 
escort she was returning from a late supper. Her 
indifference, her manner, was maddening, and her 
laugh was in response to her companion’s ardent 
protest to her coldness. 

“Dear me!” she said, “you men! Can’t you real- 
ize that, outside of her profession, an actress who 
has any foolish notions of love — well, it is usually 
when she begins to play ‘old woman’ parts. How 
do you suppose that one about to make her debut 
could think of anything else, and, least of all, of 
love! Why, it’s with difficulty I remember my en- 
gagements. Had you not called for me to-night, 


MY FIRST AND LAST ROLE. 


195 


doubtless not until to-morrow would I have remem- 
bered that I had an engagement to dine out/' 

This was neither consoling nor flattering to a 
man of wealth and influence — one from whom a 
word of praise was eagerly sought, and as highly 
prized as an advance in salary. 

‘T am at a loss to say which I most admire in 
you — your talent or your astounding indifference. 
You have the beauty of a modern Venus, with the 
coldness of the original — in marble,. But you 
made a stunning picture in the hotel, and your wit — 
could you do that dinner scene of to-night on the 
stage — you were a combination of Re jane, Bern- 
hardt and Calve — for Calve is as great an actress as 
either of the others. Immediately you step into the 
carriage — presto ! you are a goddess of ice." 

Nan laughed, but she no longer was the actress — 
her mirth told that the heart within her was dead. 
Her companion was discerning enough to see it. 

‘‘Tell me," he said, “I believe that at one time 
Mr. Chentington " 

The mention of his name sent the color to her 
face. 

“Of course," she interrupted, “we are old ac- 
quaintances. When, at church affairs, I tore ‘Juliet' 
to shreds, and dashed through the ‘Charge of the 
Light Brigade' at a gallop, Mr. Chentington led the 


196 


THE FOOL, 


applause. He discovered me/’ she laughed. “Now 
he mourns at his lack of judgment. I almost agree 
with him. Here we are at the house.” 

Her escort was granted the pleasure of holding 
the tips of her fingers in his hand, and of standing 
by the open door as she passed into the hall, which, 
by the way, was as near as he had ever been to Nan’s 
apartments. 

“She’s adorable,” he muttered, as he entered his 
carriage, “and has talent to her finger tips — but for 
downright chilly, queenly condescension, she is alone 
in the profession, and,” he added with conviction, 
“she could hold her own with a member of the 
House of Stuart. In private she treats me as if I 
were a privileged servant. To flattery — her disdain 
is of the quiet, cutting kind; but it is magnificent. 
She doesn’t exactly order me about as though I were 
her lackey, — she commands. The conceit is knocked 
out of me — I, who have made stars, and unmade 
their managers. Had I not learned from experience 
that I would be forced to wait in the hall for my 
answer, I would return and make the offering of 
my despised love, my unwieldy fortune, and what- 
ever is left of my self-esteem, at her disdainful feet. 
No doubt I would be told to call to-morrow after 
rehearsal.” 

The days went by, and the wheels of time, in 


MY FIRST AND LAST ROLE, 


197 


Nan’s world, stopped at eight o’clock, for it was the 
night of her first appearance ; and to her, hereafter, 
time would be reckoned from that hour. The theatre 
was ablaze with lights, carriages deposited gaily 
dressed patrons at the door — old timers who, in the 
last twenty years, had rarely missed a first night, 
and the crowd surged and fluttered to their seats. 
Wealth, beauty and talent were at par value, and 
fraternized in true Bohemian style; for a first night 
levels all social barriers. The orchestra, buried 
under the stage, discoursed thinly an Auber over- 
ture, to which no one paid the slightest attention. 
The horns sending forth a final blast, the curtain 
went up; and, as the audience comfortably seated 
themselves, the buzz of conversation died into a flut- 
ter of gowns. 

The play was from an authoritative pen. There 
were some new comers in the cast, and one, un- 
known and unheralded, had one of the leading parts. 
This was sufficient to arouse curiosity and some in- 
terest; and, considering the fact that that “man of 
dreams,” the press agent, had been singularly reti- 
cent in regard to the new leading member of the 
company, there was a growing desire to pass judg- 
ment upon her. She was known, however, to be a 
protegee of the manager; and this fact was not 
to be lightly passed over. 


THE FOOL. 


198 

The first act of the play moved slowly and with 
indifferent success. Old favorites were greeted 
warmly, and the other members of the company re- 
ceived encouraging applause. They played with a 
robustness that was a blending of self-consciousness 
and forceful art — in truth, in the case of some of the 
new members, it was a poor quality of art ; for they 
labored through the scenes with ill-judged ardor. 

Nan made her entrance in the last scene of the act, 
and a movement of heads swept the lower part of 
the house — for her beauty was marked ; and the first 
impression was decidedly in her favor. She was 
calm and self-possessed, and her lines, spoken in 
clear, musical tones, carried to every portion of the 
house. In her manner there was a quiet intensity, 
a reserve force that proclaimed her mastery of the 
part; and, after her first few clearly spoken sen- 
tences, her dominant power held the interest and the 
confidence of her auditors. Her methods were in 
striking contrast to those of her associate; and the 
beauty of the tones of her voice at once placed her 
on friendly terms with her audience. But she had 
little to do in the first act, and the impression she 
had so far made, was by an appeal to the senses, not 
to the understanding. The test of her ability was 
yet to come. 

Chentington was sitting in one of the front rows 


MY FIRST AND LAST ROLE, 


199 


of orchestra chairs, keenly alive to all that was tak- 
ing place before, as well as behind, the footlights. 
The first act was over and a buzz of discussion of 
the merits of the play and the players occupied the 
audience. Behind where he was seated the criticism 
became intelligible. 

‘‘She attacks the part with the touch of an old 
timer. What eyes she has! yet her expression is 
that of a young tigress.’’ 

“How old do you think her?” 

“Surely not over twenty.” 

“Hardly that. Anyway, she’s beautiful, so what 
matters her age. They say the third act is really 
hers, and she’s equal to it.” And the critical com- 
mentaries shifted to the fit of a gown worn by a 
lady in one of the boxes. 

The second act moved with more animation. The 
story of the play had, in different form, been told 
times without number; but a unique variation was 
being evolved. Nan, in one of the scenes, for a 
few brief moments had the center of the stage. She 
dominated the situation by a quiet intensity — unob- 
trusive yet forceful, but with a surety of touch that 
placed the character first in the interest which the 
play was gradually awakening. The curtain fell on 
the act and she, with the two leading members of 
the company, responded to a call. After the curtain 


200 


THE FOOL. 


had been again lowered, Nan, behind the scenes, 
was listening to words of praise and encouragement 
from the author and the manager. She smiled 
faintly, but with little manifestation of pleasure. 

‘‘If you carry through the next act as successfully, 
you can count on scoring a ‘hit.' " The manager 
was congratulating himself on his own judgment 
in her selection. 

“I had never considered a failure," answered 
Nan quietly. 

“She has nerve enough to do Lady Macbeth," he 
remarked to the author, “and, 'pon my soul, I be- 
lieve she has the ability." 

Chentington, meantime, was listening to praise 
of Nan which filled him with rage and disgust; for 
he was conscious of having surrendered the honor 
of posing as her sponsor. She had yet, however, 
to face the true test of her ability, for it was by the 
final scene in the coming act that she would be 
judged. The impression she had thus far made 
could be wiped out by one false touch, one untrue 
note, for he knew that the coming scene depended 
on her ability to maintain the standard which she had 
established. What had gone before was but as 
child play to what she would be called upon to do. 
Chagrin at his failure to measure her true worth, 
and his arrogant self-conceit, bred in him a desire 


MY FIRST AND LAST ROLE. 


201 


to see his judgment vindicated; and he awaited, 
with vicious expectancy, her failure. 

The third act was well under way, and the cli- 
max was being approached gradually, and in a man- 
ner which wrought the audience to a high pitch of 
excitement. The crucial scene had come, and upon 
its working out depended the success of the piece. 
A slight, and seemingly unnecessary, momentum to 
the action, a tendency to a studied effect at realism, 
and an inclination to embrace opportunities which 
invited boisterousness — these indications told with 
painful effectiveness the anxiety of the company; 
for the importance of the scene invited the demon 
of rant, and the eagerness of the players threatened 
an overdoing, that would turn the emotional element, 
which was the key to the situation, into ridicule. 
But Nan seemed to cut loose from the atmosphere 
which, if entered into would accomplish her down- 
fall. She was not of the part — she was, for the 
time being, the character itself. Like a gambler 
who has staked his last dollar, she began the scene 
with almost a show of indifference. There was just 
a touch of the spirit of daring — an abandon which 
suggested, more than voiced, a recklessness of con- 
sequences. Yet a reserve force, as though she were 
toying with the part, commanded the attention of 
her audience, and, breathless, they hung upon every 


202 


THE FOOL, 


word, every gesture, conscious that she was giving 
only such power to the situation as it demanded. 
But as she neared the end, a deepening color stole 
into her cheeks. The expression in her eyes, and 
the passion in her voice, were intense, startling. A 
magnetic current swept the audience, — at that in- 
stant, in the glance which she allowed to rest on the 
faces before her, she recgonized Chentington. It 
was at a fortunate moment — it was then that she had 
been given her cue for her speech which was to end 
the act. A chill, for an instant, seemed to come over 
her, and, in a voice that electrified her audience, 
she began. It was not acting, it was not art — it 
was the story of her own life ; for in the impassioned 
scene, she was giving her own tale of love, of sor- 
row, of heart-burning. She repeated the words of 
the author with telling effect; but it was her own 
emotions which she portrayed. She was acting as 
though it were her last scene — ^the tragedy of her 
own life; for at that moment, her lover, to her, alone 
existed. Though he was seated but a few feet away, 
she knew that a limitless sea of despair rolled be- 
tween them. 

The curtain descended, and the theatre rang with 
applause Nan was literally dragged on to the 
stage by the other members of the company, to an- 
swer again and again the call of the audience; but 


MY FIRST AND LAST ROLE. 


203 


she seemed unmoved by the demonstrations, and the 
faces before her merged into a mist before her eyes. 

In the last act she had little to do that called for 
power; but even the members of the company mar- 
velled at the depth of emotion which she depicted. 
Sorrow was in her voice, in her eyes ; and the verdict, 
unamimous and outspoken, was that an emotional 
actress of uncommon ability had scored an in- 
dividual success. After the final curtain. Nan, in 
her dressing room, listened to words which, though 
they brought no joy to her, would have turned the 
head of one who measured happiness by the fulness 
of her triumph. 

An hour later, standing before the mirror in her 
room, she critically scanned her features. Her 
nerves, which, for the past few* weeks had been 
keyed to an unnatural, even dangerous, pitch, had 
relaxed. The shadow of dark circles under the eyes, 
and the lines of the mouth, was Nature’s danger 
signal; for the tension of her nervous system had 
given way after the excitement of the performance, 
and mind and body seemed to surrender the moment 
she had achieved the success she craved. As she 
laid her wraps aside, she smiled bitterly. 

‘'And they tell me,” she said softly, “that I have 
won fame in a night. And it is of this I have 
dreamed! Triumph? It’s as empty as the echo of 


ao4 


THE FOOL. 


a lover’s vows ! This is the glory for which I have 
longed — the sweet morsel of fame, that is but worm- 
wood to the taste, and leaves the heart empty. Be- 
fore, there was, at least, desire ; and now — that, also, 
is gone, and not even ambition remains. That, too, 
is dead, for there is no reason for it to exist. And 
once I was foolish enough to believe the heart could 
live for glory alone. Nothing but dreams, whose 
realization is but a mist, a phantom ; and the 
awakening ” 

A rap at the door interrupted. “Come in,” she 
called. 

The landlady entered and handed her a card. 

“Show the gentleman in,” Nan’s voice was un- 
natural. The old lady withdrew and Chentington 
entered. 

Nan stood before the dressing case. As Chent- 
ington paused at the threshold, she turned and, look- 
ing at him calmly, waited for him to speak. Her 
face betrayed neither surprise, pleasure, nor resent- 
ment; she was calm, and only a slight color, which 
had mounted to her cheeks, betrayed that his coming 
had moved her. Neither was it acting on her part, 
for the last few hours had wrought such a change in 
her nature as to startle even herself. She appeared, 
as she stood waiting for him to speak, the woman of 
the world, and complete mistress of the situation. 


MY FIRST AND LAST ROLE, 


205 


‘‘Well/’ she said. Her voice was even, her man- 
ner dispassionate. 

“I came to congratulate you,” he mumbled. 

A faint smile played about her mouth. She had 
not moved from her position — the tips of her fingers 
still resting on the dresser — and the exquisite lines 
of her neck and shoulders were reflected in the mir- 
ror before which she was standing. His superior 
mentally, the authoritative, though unconscious, 
bearing which Nature bestows on those whom she 
favors, sat well upon her ; and, for the moment, her 
innate power gave to her a queenly dignity. She 
was not deceived in the man. As, at a glance, a 
gladiator measures his adversary — as a vaulter 
judges distance with a lightning eye, so, in the look 
with which she met him, she measured his worth. 
She had loved him — she loved him still ; but she was 
keenly alive to his utter worthlessness and lack of 
manhood. She was not surprised at his coming, 
for she did not underestimate the power of public 
favor which she knew was hers — it was this, she 
knew, that had drawn him to her. For the moment 
she despised him for his unmanliness, but she de- 
spised herself still more for loving him. Had fate 
denied her the success that was now hers, and had 
he come to her, she would have welcomed him as a 
god among men ; but she knew only too well that he 


2o6 


THE FOOL. 


was following in the wake of the applause which she 
had won. As she spoke to him, her tone was tinged 
with pity, in which disdain struggled for recogni- 
tion. 

“You come to congratulate me? Why, you might 
have joined in the applause at the theatre. The last 
time we met here, you may remember, was when 
you had come to the decision that I could never act. 
Have you changed your opinion?” 

“Yes,” he answered sheepishly. Then in a more 
confident tone : “I am free to admit that I was too 
hasty, I ” 

She laughed, as she had laughed when he first 
told her that he loved her. He felt her glance, for 
he had not the courage to meet her eyes. 

“Constancy is not for you,” she said, “you will 
change your opinion again. We all come around 
to our first point of view. It is better a weather- 
vane, if untrue, be stable, than to fluctuate between 
given points of the compass. We know, at least, 
not to rely upon it.” 

“But you will let me prove to you that I can be 
constant. I will ” 

“No, no,” she interrupted. The first note of 
decision in her tone since he had entered. “No, it 
is not to me, myself, you have come to renew ac- 
quaintance — it is to the actress, the player, that you 


MY FIRST AND LAST ROLE, 


207 


are drawn. The tinsel and the unreal side have ap- 
pealed to you. You are intoxicated with the 
glamor — the unreality. Just God, man, have you 
never considered that a woman might have a heart 
— that she might, perhaps, have the impulses, the 
feelings of a human being ? Has it ever occurred to 
you that she, for her own sake, might wish to be 
loved ? or that she would cast from her the mistaken 
love of a man who would consider her a puppet — an 
animated doll — one, whose heart-strings he could 
twang to see her dance to his changing moods ? You 
would return to bask in the glow of the little fame 
which chance has thrown my way ! It is the actress 
Nan that draws you here, for there are two of me. 
The one which appeals to you — I left her in the 
theatre, under the glare of the lights. She has no 
love to give you, for her art is her love, her very 
being; the other? Ha! That other I know too 
well ! Her heart is dead, do you hear ? dead, dead, 
dead! You had her love, but you strangled it; and, 
with a man's acumen, flung it from you as a thing 
unworthy." 

He tried to interrupt her, to plead, to beg, but her 
laugh checked him, and sent the blood of humilia- 
tion into his face. He stammered something unin- 
telligible. She interrupted : 

^'Spare yourself the trouble of trying to explain 


2o8 


THE FOOL. 


what, apparently, you do not understand — your 
own feelings. Your judgment is warped by the 
glare of the footlights — the noise of the applause 
has unsettled your reasoning faculties. If you im- 
agine that you love, believe me, you were never so 
utterly in error. Think you had I not made a suc- 
cess to-night you would now be standing there? 
No, no, such love is empty, and the heart within me 
would starve. No,’' she raised her hand in protest 
as he was about to speak, ‘T know it — just God! 
how well I know it! It is not love — I but appeal 
to your vanity — I am something that you would 
possess. And, as my theatrical star waxed or 
waned — as successive roles that I might play would 
bring me good fortune or ill, so would your passion 
burn or die. Your love would be regulated by the 
morning paper, reviewing the performance, and I 
would hold the same relation to you as a race horse 
that is petted when he wins, and beaten when others 
pass him. My dear Chentington, you have come 
too late. Once I believed — and loved. Then you 
were blind; but that was ages ago. Now? Now, I 
have the joy of success, the flattery, the glory; but 
it has strangled all other emotions. So long as 
youth lasts, and discretion stands guard over my 
poor mortal charms, for so long can I command 
the favor that the world has to offer. After that — 


MY FIRST AND LAST ROLE. 


209 


bah! that is too remote to consider. Good night, 
my friend. In the morning you will admit that I 
am the wiser of the two.’’ And her laugh followed 
him through the hall to the outer door. 

After Chentington had gone she remained stand- 
ing beside the dresser silent, motionless; but when 
she heard the door shut after him, her mask of 
gaiety seemed to slip from her features, and her 
face became haggard, colorless. She appeared 
years older, and her breathing, deep and labored, 
told of the struggle she had gone through ; but she 
did not speak. The minutes went by, each to her 
an eternity, until a laugh, unnatural and blood- 
curdling, broke on the stillness. It was then she 
moved from where she had been standing, and seat- 
ed herself on the edge of a divan. 

‘‘This, then,” she said, with a cynical smile, “this 
is the end! After years of longing, a few hours of 
triumph. After a few months of life, when I, poor 
fool ! believed myself beloved, an eternity of horror. 
The stage ! I would stifle at the very thought. The 
words would freeze on my lips. I have played my 
first and last role. I thought to win a love, and I 
found I could only command a price. I could be 
an automatic doll — a puppet — one, which, when 
through age, had become useless, is thrown into 


210 


THE FOOL. 


some corner. Oh, woman, why did thy Creator 
give to thee a heart?’’ 

With a weariness and a feeble effort, she tried to 
rise, but Nature protested — she sank to the floor un- 
conscious. 

The following morning the manager of the 
theatre held before him a letter. An uncertain hand 
had penned the words ; but they had the power to fill 
him with consternation, and to bring upon the head 
of the writer a fury of maledictions. It was short 
and not to be misunderstood. It read : ‘T am ill. 
My understudy must go on. I shall never play 
again.” 




CHAPTER XV. 


BIG DAN BETS. 

The first of October had come. The greater 
number of the summer visitors had taken their de- 
parture, and the town had resumed its natural as- 
pect. With the approaching gunning season came 
Chentington. But little stir had been made at his 
arrival. Without loss of time he had called on 
Betty, and had been received with the hospitality 
extended to any casual visitor. At the modest vil- 
lage hotel where he usually stayed, he lived, for 
that community, in an ostentatious and lavish style, 
and, by his expenditures, seemed to be in possession 
of unlimited funds. 

With much talk and boasting, he had entered his 
boat in the yacht race, which was to take place with- 
in a few days. Those to compete were the local fish- 
ermen and amateur yachtsmen, and Chentington 
was the only ‘‘outsider’' who was allowed to enter 
the contest. Much feeling had been manifest, and 
not a little money had been wagered on the result. 

Dave had entered his boat. He had encountered 


212 


THE FOOL. 


Chentington but once in the village, and a nod of 
recognition as they passed each other on the street, 
had been the only greeting they had exchanged. 
But the fisherman knew of his visits to Betty’s home 
and, although he said nothing — not even remarking 
to The Fool upon Chentington’s return — rage filled 
him. Since he had heard that Chentington had 
called upon Betty, he had not seen her. He passed 
her home only in the dusk of evening, when he 
returned from the village, where he went daily to 
get his mail. At these times he caught glimpses of 
her through the uncurtained windows, sometimes 
alone, or in company with her Aunt Martha and 
Uncle John. Once he saw Chentington in the 
family group; for Uncle John, in the innocence of 
his heart, regarded him as a young man who had 
conquered the world — one who had placed himself 
upon a financial footing at once permanent, and an 
example of what a young man might accomplish 
by perseverance and hard work. 

Though it was obvious to Betty’s relatives that 
she was the attraction that drew Chentington to 
their home, nothing had been said between Betty 
and her guardian. Noting the warmth with which 
he was received, she treated him with a civility that 
only one of her gentle, refined nature could success- 
fully assume. 


BIG DAN BETS. 


213 


But rage and hate filled Dave's heart, and life 
seemed to go out of him. His voice was hushed, 
and he silently went about his work, forever brood- 
ing upon the thought that the woman he loved cared 
for Chentington, whom, above all men, he despised. 
The change that Chentington's coming had wrought 
in him was noticed in the village, and he was sub- 
jected daily to good-natured raillery, touching at 
times on the truth. It was no easy matter for one of 
his impetuous nature to meet these thrusts; but he 
controlled his temper, giving way to it only when 
alone. The Fool noted his changed demeanor, and, 
though he guessed the cause, he felt that it was not 
for him to offer suggestion or advice. Dave's heart 
cried for revenge, for it became a fixed belief with 
him that the woman he worshipped had given her 
heart to Chentington. 

Betty missed his daily visits, yet by no word did 
she manifest what his seeming indifference meant to 
her. She loved him tenderly. It was a pure love, 
controlled by a maidenly reserve, and a pride that 
held her passion in restraint. Her feelings she 
locked in her own heart ; and it was only when un- 
guarded they escaped, and, flashing their truant 
secret from her eyes, betrayed her. 

These occasions, when they occurred in Dave's 
presence, were of but momentary duration, and 


THE FOOL, 


2 14 

blushing at her own unmaidenly lack of control, she 
schooled herself to stifle her feelings. But her cau- 
tion was unnecessary, only as it assuaged her pride; 
for the fisherman’s discernment was clouded in what 
he deemed his presumption in daring to love her. 
Thus it was that, while Chentington’s visits con- 
tinued, the separation of the lovers, by a maidenly 
reserve and the fisherman’s faint heart, gave to her 
a proud outward show of indifference, but filled 
Dave with a wild, uncontrollable desire to revenge 
himself upon the man who had come between them. 

Ludicrous were the outbursts of anger in which 
he indulged, always, however, when alone — mostly 
when in his boat on the unresponsive sea. Many 
and dire were the methods of revenge he declared he 
would wreak upon the cause of his anger. But he 
always concluded his tirade with self-upbraiding — 
condemning the Fates that had been over-kind to 
him. 

It was the second week after Chentington’s ar- 
rival. The Fool was returning from the village in 
the dusk of evening and met Chentington, who had 
just left Betty’s home. 

Since Chentington’s return he had disclaimed all 
knowledge of Nan. He admitted that he had met 
her in New York, but as to her career on the stage, 
he gave no information. But what little he had told 


BIG DAN BETS. 


215 

left the impression that she had made a mistake. 
She had appeared in public, but beyond that he 
claimed to know nothing. Nan, by her silence, had 
made it an easy matter for him to keep the facts of 
her appearance from the knowledge of her friends 
and family, for she had never alluded to her stage 
career in her letters. Realizing, after their inter- 
view, that she had destroyed all hope of ultimate 
success, and knowing that she had voluntarily re- 
linquished the stage, he had lost no time in turning 
his attention to the prospect of winning Betty's for- 
tune. The Fool realized his purpose, even before 
the gossip of the village made it clear. 

''Mr. Chentington," said The Fool, "I would like 
to speak to you." Pont crouched behind his master. 

"Well," said Chentington gruffly, "what is it?" 

"You may consider it none of my affair, but it 
will repay you to listen." 

Chentington had never before heard The Fool 
speak, and he regarded him with amazement. He 
was amused at the appearance of the slight figure 
in the semi-darkness. He listened, with a covetous 
eye fixed upon Pont. 

"Well?" he interrogated encouragingly. 

The Fool calmly looked him in the eyes. He 
weighed each word he was about to utter, and they 
fell on the quiet of the night, clear and distinct. 


2i6 


THE FOOL, 


‘‘Have you ever stopped to consider what the re- 
sult would be should Nan’s Uncle Dave discover 
your treatment of her? It was your promises of 
success that induced her to go to New York. Were 
you not man enough to fulfil them ?” 

Had Chentington received a blow in the face, he 
would not have been more surprised. This coming 
from a man whom he considered weak-minded, 
and incapable of intelligent thought, nonplussed 
him. After his first surprise, he found voice. 

“Why, you idiot, what are you jabbering about?” 

“What you had best heed,” was the calm reply. 
“She trusted to the assistance that you promised 
her — she relied on your manhood. What have you 
to say?” 

“I’ve a mind to throw you into the ditch there,” 
said Chentington angrily. 

“I have no doubt you would like to, but you will 
take time to consider. Reserve your strength, for, 
if Dave Kurran ever learns of your contemptible 
treatment of her, you’ll have an opportunity to exer- 
cise it. Your life wouldn’t be worth that.” He 
snapped his fingers, but it had an effect different 
from what he intended. Pont, with a growl, was 
instantly on his feet. 

The Fool was about to pass on when Chentington 
grasped him by the sleeve of his coat; but he had 


BIG DAN BETS. 


217 


not counted pn Pont springing upon him and fasten- 
ing his teeth in the calf of his leg. 

‘'Damn your dog/’ cried Chentington in evident 
pain. “Call him off!” 

A word from his master, and Pont stood behind 
him. 

“Pll kill that dirty beast.” Chentington winced 
with pain. 

The Fool laughed scoffingly. “What you have 
received is nothing to what is in store for you. If 
Dave knew to-night your treatment of Nan, then 
God help you, for her uncle would take your punish- 
ment into his own hands. Mark me ! He will never 
know from me; but should he never learn, you’ll yet 
reckon with The Fool.” 

He disappeared in the gathering gloom, his ears 
tingling with the volley of oaths that was hurled 
after him. 

They often met after their encounter, but neither 
spoke. Dave believed that whatever friendship had 
existed between Chentington and Nan, was but a 
girlish fancy awakened by the flattery to which she 
had listened. She had never referred to him in 
her letters. The Fool was too cautious to speak of 
him before the fisherman; but he feared that time 
would disclose Nan’s infatuation for the man. On 
the other hand, Chentington’s many exploits, his 


2I8 


THE FOOL. 


precarious, and oftentimes illegal, methods of ob- 
taining a living, had made him daring until judg- 
ment seemed to forsake him, and peril only added 
zest to his undertakings. At heart, he was a coward ; 
but in his conceit and arrogance he considered the 
fisherman unworthy of serious thought. 

Pont and his master walked slowly homeward. 
They passed Dave's house where a light shone 
brightly through the window; but the fisherman was 
not to be seen. 

'Tont," said The Fool, ''you are becoming alto- 
gether too obstreperous. You mean well, but, in 
your desire to protect your master, you are contract- 
ing vulgar habits. I don't mind your tearing the 
Squire's coat; but don't defile your teeth by biting 
men of Chentington's stamp. He's not worth it. 
Bah ! He isn't a man. He's one of those creatures 
that leave a trail of disaster in their wake, and gen- 
erally meet a violent death. If that rascal knew 
Dave Kurran as I do, he wouldn’t wait for the morn- 
ing train. It is not for him I fear; but I must save 
Dave from the result of his own rashness." 

The next morning the customary slip of paper un- 
der his door, told The Fool that a letter from Nan 
had arrived, and he lost no time in answering the 
call. 

"Look, Lemmie," as The Fool's greeting, "four 


BIG DAN BETS. 


219 


pages. Who says that Nannie forgets her Uncle 
Dave?’’ 

The Fool smiled at the almost boyish enthusiasm 
of the fisherman, and rapidly scanned the letter 
His deception was at an end, for the letter was filled 
with the tenderest messages of love, and of earnest 
inquiry for Dave’s welfare. No word of the battle 
she had fought, of her success, of what she had re- 
linquished. No intimation that the heart within 
her was dead; — only words of love for those who 
cherished her as the Nan of her childhood. 

The fisherman was elated. For the moment he 
forgot Betty and the cloud that had hung over him 
for the past ten days. But he was not alone in his 
joy, for his companion did not fail to note the 
changed language contained in the missive. 

After discussing the contents of the letter for 
some time, Dave said abruptly : 

‘‘Lemmie, I’m a goin’ ter win thet boat race if it 
takes a leg.” 

The Fool smiled. He recognized the incentive. 
He also knew that Dave’s strongest competitor was 
Chentington,. 

‘'He’s got a good boat,” continued the fisherman, 
not deeming it necessary to mention Chentington’s 
name, “but he don’t know how to sail her. He 
thinks he does.” Dave grinned. “He don’t know 


220 


THE FOOL. 


a yard-arm from a tops'l. I could run him down 
an’ punch a hole in ’er.” There was an ugly gleam 
in the fisherman’s eyes. He stood in the center of 
the floor, and, for the instant, forgot that he was not 
alone. ‘‘Th’ dern cuss can’t swim he added, sor- 
rowfully, shaking his head. 

His visitor smiled. He knew, as though he had 
heard him speak his thoughts, what was passing in 
the fisherman’s mind ; but he also knew the man — 
knew that with all his talk, he was incapable of tak- 
ing a mean advantage of a human being. 

Dave looked at his companion for a full half 
minute, then roared: 

‘'Well, jest the same, he’s a damn skunk!” 

The Fool could but laugh, which he did — for 
him — boisterously. Dave joined in the mirth with 
his customary roar. Then suddenly : 

“What in thunder be yer laughin’ at, Lemmie? 
I don’t see nothin’ ter laugh at.” His mood was 
changing, for he could not long keep the vision of 
Chentington and Betty from his mind. “Lemmie,” 
he said after a pause, “yer can bet yer last dollar on 
thet race, fer it’s mine! D’yer hear?” he roared, 
“it’s mine!” 

“You are not alone in wishing to win,” said The 
Fool calmly. 

Dave turned quickly. His visitor was looking 


BIG DAN BETS. 


221 


out of the window. The fisherman would not have 
mentioned the name that trembled on his lips for the 
wealth of the Squire ; but his heart-beats quickened, 
and he walked the floor with rapid strides. 

Chentington, meantime, with a gambler’s instinct, 
was wagering money, in various amounts, upon his 
success in the race. When he found men timid of 
risking their capital, or those who were not easily 
moved by his blatant boasts, he condescendingly 
gave odds. When two to one failed as an induce- 
ment, he offered odds of five to one. 

He was lounging about the village store late in 
the afternoon, having, apparently, exhausted all 
money seeking investment. Several of the villagers. 
Big Dan among the number, had been listening to 
Chentington’s comments on yachting in general, the 
coming race in particular, and vague allusions to 
aristocratic New York yacht clubs of which he was 
a member. Big Dan listened with the air of a man 
who, to use an expression of Chentington’s,' '‘had 
something up his sleeve.” 

'T wouldn’t mind riskin’ a few dollars ef you’ll 
give me decent odds,” he said. "Of course,” he con- 
tinued, with an air of one fearing his proposition 
might be accepted, "I know yer’ve got th’ best boat. 
My only chance’s thet Dave ought ter sail close up 
ter yer. He’s lived on th’ water all his life.” 


222 


THE FOOL. 


Chentington rewarded him with a condescending 
stare. “How much do you wish to place?” he 
drawled, with the unconcerned manner of one to 
whom small amounts were something unworthy of 
consideration. 

The loungers smiled at one another, and a per- 
ceptible titter ran around the group. The pos- 
sibility of Big Dan having one whole dollar in his 
possession was too preposterous. They grinned 
openly. Chentington was toying with some visiting 
cards which he held in his hands: he was un- 
consciously shuffling them. He stood beside the 
counter and bestowed a patronizing stare upon Big 
Dan, who was sitting on the edge of a box watching 
the nimble fingers handling the cards. 

“That chap can deal from the bottom of a deck,” 
Dan mused. Then aloud : “Last night, yer took a 
bet of five ter one. I won’t take any less odds.” 

Big Dan looked up timidly. The onlookers 
jeered, for should Chentington accept his proposi- 
tion, they expected Dan’s discomfiture to be com- 
plete. They were morally certain that Dan did not 
have a cent. His crestfallen air only convinced his 
listeners, as they afterwards expressed it, “thet Dan 
was jest talkin’.” 

“Well, call it five to one,” said Chentington with 
a jaunty air. 


BIG DAN BETS. 


223 


‘‘How much?’’ the ubiquitous Dan queried. His 
imperturable features disclosed nothing. 

“This,” whispered his listeners, “is the culmina- 
tion of the joke; but Dan will never hear the end of 
it.” 

“Oh,” said Chentington lightly, “you can put up 
one dollar or five hundred. I’ll cover it five to one.” 

The spectators giggled. They expected Big Dan 
to slink out of the store in confusion. Dan did 
nothing of the kind. He rose slowly and, with a 
deliberateness that was maddening, shoved his hairy 
paw into his trousers pocket, and drew forth a roll 
of bills. 

To every one present, the denomination of the 
outside bill was plainly seen to be one hundred dol- 
lars. 

“Call it five hundred,” he said quietly, counting 
out the money and handing it to the proprietor of 
the store. “That calls for twenty-five hundred.” 
He sat down on the box again as though handling 
one hundred dollar bills was an every-day occur- 
rence.. 

What followed is best told in the words of one of 
the onlookers, Joe White. Every man present had 
a different version of the affair. Joe’s, being the 
least extravagant, is probably the most authentic. 

“I thought that Big Dan was jest kiddin’ Chen- 


224 


THE FOOL. 


tington ; an’ when he shoved his hand down for the 
money, I ’spected ter see ’im pull out a plug er ter- 
backer. I know he got a plug on tick last night, fer 
I wuz in the store when old man Davis gin it t’ ’im. 
Big Dan was broke — clean, dead broke. But in- 
stid of th’ terbacker, out he pulled a roll as big as my 
arm. Th’ whole gang was struck dumb! Chen- 
tington turned the color of the depot carriage 
wheels — a pale green. Dan set down as cool as a 
November frost — nary a word out of ’im. When 
Chentington found his voice, he hemmed and 
hawed, ’n’ he didn’t care about th’ amount, but he’d 
hev ter give a check. Then Dan coolly remarked, 
as though he were president of the Provincetown 
Bank, thet checks wouldn’t go. He, he,” chuckled 
Joe, ''thet took th’ wind out of Chentington. Finally 
he managed to dig out two hundred and fifty, Dan 
withdrew all but fifty, an’ th’ bet was up.” 

Joe’s story differed on essential points every time 
he rehearsed it. But his conclusions never varied. 

''Where did Big Dan get the money?” This un- 
known fact wrought havoc in the minds of the vil- 
lagers for many a day; but they did not ascertain 
Big Dan’s financial backer. They were satisfied 
that the money was not his, but who furnished it? 
Big Dan smiled upon them pityingly. The occur- 
rence placed him in a social niche above his erst- 


BIG DAN BETS. 


225 


time equals. He was not slow to take advantage 
of the mystery that, in the eyes of his fellows, lent 
new importance to his prosaic existence. Hence- 
forth it was to be his stock in trade, and he smiled 
benignly upon his inquisitors. 

It was said that they watched Big Dan to discover 
for whom he was acting. The following they 
neither saw nor heard : 

It was near midnight, and The Fool was reading. 
A soft growl from Pont; a heavy foot approaching; 
a gentle rap on the casement ; and Big Dan grinned 
through the closed window.^ Pont clamorously ob- 
jected, until hushed by his master, who opened the 
window. 

Big Dan thrust a roll of money into The Fool’s 
hand. 

‘‘Couldn’t get him to take but fifty, on a five to 
one bet. Guess that’s all he hed.” 

“That’s better than I anticipated,” said Tlie Fool. 
“Here are ten dollars for your trouble, and ten more 
that you will never mention my name in the tran- 
saction.” 

Big Dan took the money and chuckled. “The 
last ten you’ve squandered,” he said. “I wouldn’t 
tell ’em fer a hundred. ’Twould spoil all th’ fun 
I’m havin’ with ’em. I’d ben here afore, only they 
watched me all th’ evening.” 


226 


THE FOOL. 


The window was closed. Pont growled. He 
didn’t approve of midnight callers, and was only 
appeased with a sweet biscuit. 

“Pont,” quoth his master, “betting is not good for 
our morals; neither does it insure boat races being 
won; but I’d bet my life on Davie, and I guess we 
can risk a few dollars on the race. The possibility 
of breaking Chentington’s the thing, Pont, not the 
money. His conceit is colossal ; his heart is blacker 
than the night ; and his chances of winning that race 
are slight, aye, as slight as his hopes of Heaven.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE YACHT RACE. 

Saturday, the day set for the race, broke dull, 
cheerless, and with a leaden bank of clouds that 
would not lift. The dew remained on leaf and grass, 
and the trees and fading foliage seemed to weep dis- 
consolately for the Summer that was but a memory. 
The sea reflected the dull gray above, and a thin 
haze hung over its surface, disturbed here and there 
by a fisherman's boat, creeping, with slothful stealth, 
through the phantom-like mist. A mournful quiet 
pervaded — the world seemed sorrowing for the tru- 
ant sun, skulking behind cloud barriers that it would 
not dispel. 

Every one in the town seemed to be astir earlier 
than usual; and it was not yet seven o'clock when 
The Fool stood before the open door of Dave's 
home. 

'‘What d'yer think, Lemmie?" the fisherman 
swept the horizon with a comprehensive glance. 

'Tt'll burn away before ten o'clock," answered his 
visitor. 


228 


THE FOOL. 


‘'Hope so. How’s th’ wind?” 

“A little west of south, it’s working ’round to the 
west.” 

“Good,” Dave replied. “That’ll give us a stiff 
breeze ’fore noon. Lemmie, it’s th’ wind I want — 
th’ stiffer th’ better.” With a roar he continued: 
“What yer think I heered? Big Dan took a five ter 
one bet of Chentington’s. Had five hundred dollars 
ter put up.” He looked his astonishment. “Wher’d 
yer suppose he got the money?” 

His fixed habit of answering his own questions 
saved his visitor framing a reply. He flashed a 
look at his companion, whose eyes were fixed upon 
his face, then suddenly: 

“Big Dan with five hundred dollars! He never 
hed five hundred cents of his own at any one time in 
his lazy life ! He eats and smokes ahead of what he 
earns, and afore he works fer it; an’ when he gits 
his money, it belongs ter old man Davis. But th’ 
dern cuss pays it over without bein’ ast fer it. Ther’s 
where he’s a better man ’n lots of others thet wear 
better clothes. Lemmie, ther’s some one who’s on 
ter th’ fact, thet Chentington thinks he can sail a 
boat, and who knows thet he can’t. I’ll win him his 
money, whoever he is, but we’ve got ter hev some 
wind ter do it.” 

N 


THE YACHT RACE. 


229 


The Fool listened, but offered no word to clear 
up the mystery that troubled the fisherman. 

Ten o'clock found the villagers on their way to 
view the race. Although it was several hours be- 
fore the starting time, the cliff overlooking the har- 
bor was dotted with vehicles of all styles and ages. 
Country people, who had ridden into town in two 
or three-seated open rigs, mingled freely with the 
aristocratic element that remained at their homes 
until late in the Fall, to enjoy the season which, to 
many, is the loveliest in the year. 

Among this class Chentington had made some 
progress, and occupied an equivocal social position 
that was tentative. In private circles he was ac- 
cepted with some degree of caution; but on public 
occasions he was received with an offhand cordiality 
that he was not slow to take advantage of. Among 
this element — we will here term it the ‘‘better class," 
it passed as such — he was a favorite in the race. 
He had posed as ani enthusiastic yachtsman, and his 
boat, with its pretentious fittings, lent color to his 
claim. Dave's boat, on the other hand, was the 
one he used nearly every day in the pursuit of his 
vocation; but he had handled it in all kinds of 
weather, and his regard for it was second only to 
liis faith in his ability to win the race. 

He knew the course over which they were to sail ; 


THE FOOL. 


230 

am'd he decided to take a last look at his rigging to 
see that everything was in proper order. 

For this purpose he had gone out to his boat 
several hours before the time set for the race. He 
had left it in perfect condition the night before; 
but to his keen eye it was soon apparent that some- 
thing was wrong. Pulling off his boots, he pro- 
ceeded to handle every piece of canvas, rope, pulley 
and part of the craft from the deck to the top of the 
mast. He found what he feared, and the suspicion 
that had flashed across his mind when he first came 
aboard, was now a certainty — some one had tam- 
pered with the rigging. A knife and a file had been 
used to weaken the vital parts of the boat’s gear in 
such a manner, that the first strong puff of wind 
would insure a complete collapse of the sail. So 
skilfully had the work been accomplished, that it 
required a careful and minute examination to dis- 
close the damage ; and had the sail been replaced as 
it was found, it would have defied detection. 

In his cabin, which he always kept securely locked, 
was a duplicate of everything necessary to repair the 
damage. Fie was about to go below when Big Dan 
hailed him from a rowboat. 

‘'Come aboard,” cried Dave, “I want yen Pull, 
and pull lively.” 

Dave pointed out what had been done. He said 


THE YACHT RACE, 


231 


nothing, but Big Dan, taking in the situation, sup- 
plied the ammunition. Oaths, newly coined, when 
his regular stock had been exhausted, lurid and 
blood-curdling, .filled the air. When he reached the 
end of his vocabulary, and his inventive faculty 
seemed paralyzed with its own daring, the two men 
looked at each other ; but neither spoke for some sec- 
onds. Dan was the first to find voice. 

‘‘It’s him. The ” 

“Right yer air,” said Dave. “Make yer boat fast, 
lend me a hand, and we’ll fool him yit.” 

Dave hurried into the cabin, and returned with an 
armful of tackling. They set to work. Hardly a 
word was spoken, and those on shore marvelled, as 
they saw the two men, with cat-like movements, 
scrambling over the deck and up the mast of the 
boat, replacing the damaged rigging with new and 
staunch material. 

They kept up a desultory fire of reflections upon 
the character of their chief competitor in the race, 
which would have gladdened the heart of a South 
Sea pirate. It is not essential to our story that we 
repeat what th^ said, but Big Dan grinned. When 
they had completed their work, as it yet lacked an 
hour of the time set for the race, they hoisted the 
sail and steered for deep water to try the new gear, 
and see that everything was in sailing trim. 


THE FOOL, 


232 

Threatening clouds were scudding before a fresh, 
westerly breeze, which was increasing every mo- 
ment. The sun, with a heat that was intense, was 
dispelling the gloom of the morning. The wind 
promised well for the race, and as Dave noted the 
perfect working of his craft, he chuckled. 

Big Dan sat at the helm. The boat answered to 
his lightest touch, and he looked at his companion. 
His smile was eloquent. 

‘‘Ho roared Dave, “yer big, lazy duffer ! I don't 
believe yer ever worked harder in yer life. After 
the race, we'll hev a drink." 

Dan's smile of satisfaction broadened to a grin. 
“Now yer needn't think I did this fer you, Yer 
seem ter fergit thet I'm a sportin' man; an' thet I 
hev a cool fifty on th' race." 

“Where'd yer git it?" Dave's tone invited con- 
fidences. Dan's smile resolved into a laugh. 

“You fellers seem ter think thet I've no financial 
resources. Why, if I showed yer th' bank stock 
thet I own " 

“Ho, Ho, Ho! Bank stock! Bank fiddlesticks! 
Come now, Dan, who's er backin' yer?" 

“I'm a backin' you/' came the terse reply, “that's 
more ter th' pint ; and if yer don't win this race. I'll 
lick yer. Don't know whether I kin, but I'll try." 


THE YACHT RACE. 


233 


Dave laughed softly. He respected Dan the 
more for his refusal to betray confidences. 

‘‘Dannie, yer won't ever hev ter try. Til win th^ 
race. Say," he exclaimed, as he scanned the rig- 
ging with a critical eye, “ain’t she a darlin’ ! Don’t 
she behave like a Sunday School marm!" Dan 
agreed, and, bringing the boat about, they steered 
for the starting point. 

Chentington, meantime, was flitting among the 
spectators with the air of a Beau Brummel. He was 
confident, self-assured, and self-satisfied; and his 
general air was that of one who had already won a 
victory. To those whom he considered his social 
equals he was patronizing, exultant, and effusively 
familiar by turns; to the class he was forced to 
recognize as his superiors, he was the embodiment 
of obsequiousness. 

He lingered beside Betty. Uncle John and Aunt 
Martha accompanied her. 

“I trust that after the race," he said, “you will do 
me the honor of taking a sail with the victor. My 
boat is at your disposal." 

“I’m a poor sailor," she replied, “but should he 
invite me, I promise to take a sail with the winner 
of the race." 

“Dave’s boat is the one you will have to look out 
for," said Uncle John. 


234 


THE FOOL. 


Betty’s face lighted up with momentary interest. 
Chentington smiled his disdain, and turned to 
Betty : shall hold you to your promise,” he said, 

have no fear of the result.” There was a ring of 
confidence in his voice. 

Uncle John beamed upon him. ‘'A fine young 
man,” he observed, as Chentington took his depart- 
ure and, descending the bluff, was rowed to his 
yacht. 

Betty remained silent. Her eyes were fixed on 
an incoming boat which she recognized as Dave’s. 

The usual preliminaries, with their accompanying 
loss of time, were indulged in before the start was 
finally made. There were eight boats entered in 
the race, and, when they started, a cheer rose from 
the small craft that lined the course, and from those 
viewing the race from the shore. 

The wind had freshened, and a stiff breeze from 
the northwest made frequent tacking necessary. Be- 
fore ten minutes had elapsed, what was generally 
known became manifest — that so far as the first 
and second places were concerned — barring ac- 
cident — only two boats were to be considered — 
Dave’s and Chentington’s. They took the lead 
almost from the start; and the interest of the spec- 
tators, afloat and on shore, centered on the two lead- 


ers. 


THE YACHT RACE, 


235 


Dave watched Chentington closely, to gauge his 
management of his boat, and measure his seaman- 
ship ; and a smile lit up his handsome, bronzed face. 
With the alertness of a boy, he took in every move- 
ment of his opponent, anid his eyes laughed, before 
the smile appeared that lighted up his features. 
With the trained eye of one to whom the sea had 
been a life companion he noted details that would 
pass unnoticed to a casual observer. If one might 
judge by the way he handled his craft, Chentington 
was plainly nervous, for he was tacking unneces- 
sarily; and the manner in which he managed his 
sails was lessening their power. 

Dave luffed up into the wind and allowed his rival 
to take the lead. The first quarter of an hour sat- 
isfied him of what he wished to learn, and, with a 
merry chuckle, he turned to the silent Dan, who 
would have staked his life upon Dave’s success. Big 
Dan, however, was human, and his mind constantly 
reverted to the two hundred and fifty dollars which, 
even then, he considered as good as won. 

‘'What d’yer think, Dannie?” 

“Think? I think he’s a lobster! He kin sail a 
boat ’bout as good as old Mother Perkins. What in 
thunder be he tackin’ fer? He’s losin’ half the wind. 
Why don’t yer give her more sheet, Davie ?” 

“Don’t want ter,” answered Dave. “Give him a 


236 


THE FOOL, 


chance. The wind’s freshenin’ and gettin’ a little 
ter th’ north. Thet’ll give us almost a fair wind 
when we round the stake. On th’ home stretch I’ll 
run away from ’im.” 

‘‘Suppose he expects th’ sail an’ riggin’ ter go th’ 
fust time she fills. What’s he up ter now? Tackin’ 
again !” 

“Th’ dern fool,” laughed Dave. 

Chentington was smiling complacently on his 
companions. The two leaders had covered three- 
quarters of the distance to the stake buoy, and he 
was yet in the lead. Still, he nervously watched 
his opponent. “To be sure,” he argued, “we shall 
not feel the full force of the wind until we round the 
stake. Something should happen.” 

But the expected did not happen, and, as they 
neared the turning point, Dave was slow- 
ly but surely overtaking his rival. Big 
Dan, who was at the helm, had kept 
an almost straight course, while Chenting- 
ton, by his method of tacking, hugged the shore. 
Dan was steering directly for the stake, which would 
necessitate tacking only when he passed it, and 
started on the return course. By a sudden and un- 
expected move, Chentington laid his course directly 
across the bow of Dave’s boat, endeavoring thereby 
to cut him off, and be the first to round the stake. 


THE YACHT RACE, 


237 


This was contrary to all rules of yachting, and a 
collision seemed an absolute certainty. 

'Ts that man crazy?’' roared Dave. 

‘‘Will I hold her to her course ?” Dan growled. 

This latter proposition insured a collision. The 
bow of Dave’s boat would have struck Chentington’s 
full amidships, and the consequent sinking of Chen- 
tington’s boat seemed a certainty. Dan knew the 
construction of the craft he was steering. Their 
boat had been built for rough weather, and he had 
no fear as to its withstanding the shock. He was 
satisfied as to the person who had tampered with 
their rigging, and his spirit of daring was rein- 
forced by his desire to administer a punishment that 
was well merited. 

Dave’s eyes snapped with anger, but his command 
came clear, and with an authoritative ring. 

“Let her come up ter th’ wind,” he cried. 

Dan, with a seaman’s instinct, obeyed; but he re- 
sorted to expletives that made even Chentington 
shudder. 

“Damn yer, I ought ter hev sent yer ter th’ bot- 
tom!” Dan yelled. 

Chentington did 'ruot reply. His boat had 
rounded the stake, and he was making for the start- 
ing point. 

In averting the collision, the delay in getting their 


238 


THE FOOL, 


boat about had cost the two men much valuable time, 
and, when they finally rounded the stake, Chenting- 
ton had a dangerous lead. Dan, by the direction of 
his companion, kept on a straight course until they 
were well outside; then, bringing the boat about, the 
wind struck them fair, and filled the sheet which 
Dave let out to its full capacity. When the sail 
filled, the boat fairly leaped over the water, and it 
was soon apparent to both men that they were fast 
overhauling their rival. 

Chentington was dumbfounded. He had 
watched the sail of his rival fill, and, with exulta- 
tion, expected it to collapse. As Dave's boat passed 
him, the two men gave vent to their feelings in a 
derisive roar. Dan indulged in some uncom- 
plimentary allusions to city yachtsmen, puncturing 
his remarks with choice selections from his sailor 
vocabulary, daring in their original luridness. 
Chentington did not deign to reply. He realized that 
only an accident could save him the race. This, how- 
ever, did not occur. Shouts from the other boats, 
cheers from the shore, a roar from Dave and Big 
Dan that surpassed their life efforts, and Dave was 
the winner of the race, and Dan of two hundred and 
fifty dollars. 

Big Dan measured their victory by the amount 
of his winnings ; Dave's success had no money value 


THE YACHT RACE. 


239 

to him, but an overwhelming joy filled him to com- 
pleteness. The water threw back the sun's rays 
with an added brilliancy that reflected his feelings ; . 
and, when they stepped ashore. Nature seemed to 
rejoice with them. 

Dave was greeted on all sides, and overwhelmed 
with congratulations, for, with the townspeople, he 
was a favorite. He responded in his inimitable 
way, and laughed and roared through the crowd 
that surrounded him. But of a sudden his voice was 
hushed — he stood before Betty, receiving a quiet 
assurance of how happy she was over the result. 

‘‘Be yer?" half doubtingly. 

“Yes," she smiled, “but I knew that you’d win." 

The joy of this intelligence would have lasted 
many days, but it was not to be. Chentington ap- 
proached, and Dave walked slowly away to join Dan 
on his way to the village. 

The Fool had witnessed the race and, when Dave 
was receiving Betty’s congratulations, without hav- 
ing been seen by the fisherman, had been a silent 
listener. 

“I fear," said Chentington, “not being the victor, 
I cannot claim your promise to go sailing; yet I 
hope you will consent to favor the vanquished." 

Betty smiled and shook her head. “I could over- 


240 


THE FOOL. 


come my aversion for sailing only for the pleasure 
of going with the winner of the race.” 

‘‘But would you have gone with him?” Disdain 
was in his tone. 

“Gladly, had he asked me,” was Betty’s reply. 

The Fool smiled and turned in the direction of 
the village. 

Dave and his companion proceeded on their way. 
The knowledge that his rival was with Betty, turned 
the sweets of victory into a feeling of rage ; and the 
fisherman went on, deigning only an offhand greet- 
ing to those who pressed their profuse congratula- 
tions upon him. 

Not so Dan. His exuberance answered for the 
two, and, with swinging arms and noisy tongue, he 
gloated, bellowed, and flung defiance to the yacht- 
ing fraternity of all lands ; and in blatant tones and 
with convincing ardor, flaunted the intelligence that 
he had an unlimited amount of money at his com- 
mand, which he would wager upon the victor of the 
day. Among his associates he now occupied a social 
and financial distinction due to his new found 
wealth — and they marvelled. 

Dave, refusing to enter the store, proceeded home- 
ward, and it was left to the garrulous Dan to regale 
his companions with an account of the race. When 
he came to-the incident of rounding the stake, with 


THE YACHT RACE, 


241 


his rising anger came a flood of language, which 
shocked even those long inured to his choice as- 
sortment of unspeakable English, and it required a 
gentle reminder from old man Davis, to induce 
the narrator to return to language sanctioned by the 
law. Protesting against ''their bein’ so durn per- 
ticklar,” he continued: "When he steered 'cross 
our bow I said to Dave: Til cut his damn boat in 
two.’ Dave sez, 'Remember th’ law.’ 'Law or no 
law,’ I sez, 'he monkeyed with yer riggin’, an’ I’m 
goin’ ter sink his boat.’ Dave began to argue, 
and ” 

"Why, yaas,” drawled a skeptical listener, "sup- 
pose yer discussed th’ law while Chentington’s boat 
were crossin’ Dave’s bow. He, he. D’yer hev eny 
law books handy ter look up th’ pint?” 

"Shut yer trap. What d’yer know about it?” 
Dan glared defiantly, then resumed: "Well, Dave 
wouldn’t take the risk, and I brought her round. 
We almost grazed the stern of Chentington’s boat. 
It was a close shave, I tell yer; but gum and thun- 
der! we jest hauled inter th’ wind, an’ then we run 
away from ’im! Why,” he concluded, "it wasn’t 
close enough ter be excitin’ ; an’ now, Davis, I’ll 
trouble yer fer thet three hundred yer hold, and a 
plug er terbacker. I don’t keer ter disturb the 


THE POOL. 


242 

three hundred, yer kin break this ten-dollar bill, and 
set up the soda fer the crowd.” 

“Some one asked unfeelingly : “You drink soda, 
Dan ?” 

“Jest now, I do,” he replied, “I’ve some cham- 
pagne coolin’ ter wet up on later.” 

He cast a look of commiseration upon the open- 
mouthed, envious group ; gulped down the soda ; and 
then settled himself comfortably to enjoy their con- 
suming envy and their unsatisfied thirst for knowl- 
edge of the source of the wonderful wealth that had 
come to him. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


CHENTINGTON PRESSES HIS SUIT. 

The week following the race was filled with in- 
cidents that kept the ordinarily peaceful community 
in a turmoil. Though Chentington had not been 
openly accused of tampering with Dave's boat, he 
was looked upon with suspicion by Big Dan and his 
associates. No direct charge was made against him; 
but they believed that his had been the hand which 
had done the damage. This they brought home to 
him in many ways that were not at all pleasing to 
him; and he was forced to overlook allusions and 
remarks pointed, and clothed in language not re- 
markable for delicacy, regard for his feelings, 
or the superior air which he assumed. For reasons 
of his own, he did not resent these thrusts, which 
were daring in their originality, and refreshing in 
their candor. 

It was with the utmost difficulty that he kept up 
his former manner of living. He had lost heaviiy 
betting on the race, and, as his resources would not 
admit of a protracted stay, he determined to push 


244 


THE FOOL. 


his wooing with Betty. His casual calls be- 
came constant visits to her home, and he now 
made no pretense of disguising his purpose. On the 
contrary, he resorted to ostentatious methods of pro- 
claiming his intentions ; and he had made such pro- 
gress, that his wooing was looked upon with favor 
by Uncle John and Aunt Martha. 

Betty held aloof with a quiet reserve, and a dig- 
nity of manner which would have done honor to one 
of royal blood. She could but realize the intentions 
of Chentington; yet by neither word nor look did 
she betray her knowledge. She treated him with 
the same calm courtesy which she had accorded him 
upon his first visit. His advances for closer rela- 
tions, she met with a frank openness, which repulsed 
his desire that she should consider him with new and 
tenderer regard. 

Betty was her uncle’s pride, the light of his child- 
less life, and it was publicly known that she was to 
inherit his fortune, which, for that community, was 
considered large. This fact Chentington knew and 
appreciated to its full extent. 

‘‘Betty,” said Aunt Martha — they were sewing 
before a log fire which burned in the open grate — 
“Mr. Chentington would make a good husband. 
Tm sure he’s a promising young man.” 


CHENTINGTON PRESSES HIS SUIT. 


Betty remained silent — the subject was dis- 
tasteful to her. 

‘‘Don't yer think so?" insisted Aunt Martha. 

“I have no doubt he would make some one happy." 
Betty's eyes were on her needlework. 

“Now I really thought, Betty dear, that you had 
a sort of a — tender feeling toward Mr. Chenting- 
ton." Aunt Martha's belief in her own diplomacy 
was touching. “Haven't you ever thought of him 
in that light?" 

Betty smiled. “No," she answered, “never." 

They continued sewing for some time in silence. 
Aunt Martha was planning a new line of attack. 
The thought that she was paving the way to bring 
together two young hearts, filled her with delight; 
and she was conscious of possessing tact, to a degree 
that was painful. She considered it her present 
mission in life to bring about a union between Betty 
and Chentinigton ; and was certain that Betty's bash- 
fulness was the only barrier to be overcome. 

“Let me see. How old are you now, Betty dear?" 
Aunt Martha knew her age almost to the minute. 

“Twenty, Auntie dear." She repressed a smile at 
her aunt's ingenuousness. 

“Dear me!" Aunt Martha lifted her spectacles 
until they rested on her forehead. “Who would 
have thought it?" She regarded the half-smiling 


246 


THE FOOL. 


Betty with concern. “Your Uncle John and I were 
married when we were just — your — age.^' Replac- 
ing her spectacles, she scanned the beautiful features 
before her, while Betty bent over the work she held, 
to hide the smile she could not repress. A pause 
ensued, then in a burst of enthusiasm : 

“And do you know, dear, that I lay all our hap- 
piness to our gettin' married so young.'’ 

“I'm sure you have been very happy," Betty vol- 
unteered. 

“Happy ! Of course we hev ! And all because we 
had sense enough not to put off our wedding day, 
like some others do, until they grow old and ugly." 

She went on sewing for some minutes in silence. 
Betty plied her needle, measuring time between 
stitches by the bar of an old folk song. She reg- 
ulated the next question to the end of the strain, and 
anticipated it with a smile. 

“Heven't you ever thought of gettin' married, 
Betty dear?" 

Betty became cautious. She hesitated before re- 
plying ; then parried the question with : 

“Why should I think of getting married, Aunt 
Martha? I'm very happy as I am." 

“Of course you are, but it's something that we 
must all think about. Now, I'm sure that Mr. 
Chentington " 


CHENTINGTON PRESSES HIS SUIT. 


247 


Betty rose and stood behind the speaker’s chair. 
Placing her arms about her neck, she pressed her 
cheek to that of the kindly soul, who had been a 
mother to her from infancy. A prolonged, soft, 
musical laugh was her answer. Then kissing the 
v/ithered cheek, she spoke : 

‘‘Auntie dear, do you think you can thus easily 
get rid of me? Dear me, no ! No one has asked me 
yet, and should he do so. Til tell him my heart was 
given away long and long ago. Now, you are not 
going to dispose of me so easily. I haven’t the least 
little bit of love left to give, for it would have to 
come from the share which is yours and Uncle 
John’s — and that I object to.” All of which was 
quite true. Another kiss. Then with a merry 
laugh: “It’s most tea time. Auntie, dear, and I’m 
going to set the table.” And Aunt Martha thor- 
oughly mystified, laughed too. 

But the night brought Chentington. Betty re- 
ceived him with a cool reserve. He had spoken to 
Uncle John, and met Betty with a bold confidence, 
after having obtained her uncle’s consent to his suit. 
One might readily believe that a man of Chenting- 
ton’s worldliness would not find it difficult to de- 
ceive a woman with Betty’s lack of knowledge of 
men. She had been educated in a quiet country 
town. The grosser passions of a city life, where the 


248 


THE FOOL, 


ghosts of decayed morals stalk abroad in the glare 
of artificial light, were unknown to her. Betty’s 
knowledge was born of a pure mind, a healthy body, 
and the uncontaminated blood of ancestors who were 
tillers of the soil. Her sense of right and virtue had 
not been smeared by a sensuous world. She had 
never been mistaken in Chentington. Her woman’s 
instinct told her that he was bad; and, in the eyes 
which met his fearlessly — had not his intellect been 
warped by an overbearing conceit — he might have 
reajd an expression of pitying contempt, almost 
amounting to disgust. 

He began his proposal with a courage born of 
many conquests, and a boldness fostered by neces- 
sity — for his financial straits made Betty’s prospec- 
tive fortune his only hope. 

She checked him. Her manner was calm, digni- 
fied, but determined ; her color unchanged. 

‘‘Mr. Chentington,” she said, “I beg you not to 
speak further. What you are asking is so utterly 
impossible, that it would be wrong for me to allow 
you to proceed.” That was all. 

Chentington did not intend to thus lightly re- 
linquish his suit, and he begged to be received on 
the same footing as before. With a cordial parting, 
directed to Uncle John, which left the way open to 
continue his visits, he took his departure. 




CHENTINGTON PRESSES HIS SUIT, 


249 


‘‘Uncle John/' Betty's arms were around his 
neck, “are you conspiring to be rid of me? You are 
not tired of me ?" 

“Why, pet, what is this ?" 

“Uncle, dear, if the time comes when I put my 
arms about your neck like this " 

“Yes." 

“And tell you that a man, as good as you, has 
asked me to be his wife " 

“Yes, Betty, dear." 

“What will you say?" 

“I'll say that he must be twice as good as I am 
ter hev my little girl; and if he is. I'll say he can 
hev yer." 

“Until I come. Uncle John, of my own free will 
and tell you, you may know that such a man has 
not yet asked me." 

Another kiss, another squeeze, and the compact 
was sealed. 

It was yet early, and Betty sat down to the organ 
— her only confidant — and told her secret in melody ; 
and a tall figure, with manly step and head erect, 
caught a glimpse of the player through the uncur- 
tained window. But he strode on, and the faint 
echo of the music did not tend to soothe his turbu- 
lent spirit, for he believed that she was lost to him. 

The Fool and Pont had been indulging in tea. 


250 


THE FOOL. 


They were, in fact, tea-tipplers of the most pro- 
nounced kind. It was their usual custom, when The 
Fool devoted the evening or night to writing or 
study, to brew a pot of tea, which they sipped at in- 
tervals, interspersed with talk and much smoking. 
Font’s delight was marked ; and his master smiled at 
his manifestations. 

“Pont,” said he, “I’ll give you a riddle. There 
are two men and two women. One of the women 
loves a man, and he is tired of her. For loving him 
she is a fool, because he is a rascal. The other man 
loves a woman and is afraid to tell her so. She loves 
him, of that I am morally certain; and she is too 
pure and true a woman to let him know it. They 
love each other as your foolish master once loved; 
and they haven’t the sense to declare it. Now, Mr. 
Longnose, tell your master how to straighten out 
this affair. Speak, Pont.” 

Pont spoke, but his language was excited, dis- 
jointed, and pitched in a key altogether unintelligi- 
ble. It said plainly that he didn’t know, didn’t 
know, didn’t know. 

“Neither do I,” agreed his master, “the woman 
that loves the rascal must go on loving him ; for, be- 
ing a woman, interference would be at once foolish 
and tend to develop her obstinacy. The result? — 
she would love him all the more! The more un- 


CHENTINGTON PRESSES HIS SUIT. 251 

worthy he be, the more she’ll love him. Isn’t that 
so?” 

‘‘Yes,” said Pont. He looked at the biscuits on 
the table and was given one. 

“The other case is not hopeless, because both are 
sane, and madly love each other; but they haven’t 
the courage to say so. How can we bring them to 
a realizing sense of their childishness?” 

Pont looked dubious, but refused an opinion. His 
master relapsed into silence and the contemplation 
of the rings of smoke which he puffed into the air. 

“Dave is eating his heart out with jealousy, and 
the fear that Chentington will win her.” He 
laughed softly. “Dave is a king among men, with 
a child’s discernment. If Chentington were the only 
man on earth, Betty would die an old maid. She 
knows his true worth, and detests him. That I 
know, but Dave doesn’t. Poor Davie !” 

Another silence, broken by an approaching foot- 
step. Pont growled, and his master looked his sur- 
prise. He expected no one, and the uncommon oc- 
currence of a night visitor moved him to rise and 
walk to the window, where the lamplight disclosed 
the bearded features of Big Dan. 

“No bettin’ contracts ter-night,” said Big Dan, 
after the window had been raised, “but I hev some 


252 


THE FOOL. 


news ter tell yer, knowin’s how yer interested in 
Chentington’s welfare.” 

‘Well,” interrogated his listener. 

“Now, don’t ask me how I got it, for if you do, 
ril lie ter yer. Yer know Tve got no Sunday School 
notions about stretchin’ th’ truth. Many a good 
man has been saved from jail by lyin’; but I’m not 
under oath ’n’ ’twouldn’t count.” 

Dan’s logic moved his listener to smile, and Pont 
to place his forelegs on the window-sill and lap the 
visitor’s big, hairy paw. Lately Pont regarded Big 
Dan with favor. 

“Yer see, I were a goin’ home, an’ as I wus passin’ 
th’ Squire’s, who should I see goin’ in but Chenting- 
ton. Now, ther’s only one thing that ever brings a 
man to the Squire’s, an’ thet’s ter borrer money. 
Bein’ by nater inquisitive, all at once I hed a burnin’ 
desire ter know how much Chentington wanted, an’ 
what security he hed ter offer. Th’ Squire’d never 
take mine.” Dan’s candor was refreshing. “D’know 
as I blame him. ’Twas mighty poor, I tell yer. 
’Twarn’t good enough ter sell, an’ too dern poor ter 
keep. But ter Chentington — now, no matter what 
I did, or where I went, or how I heard — I heered, 
an’ thet’s all thet matters now. Well, Chentington 
began by talkin’ investments, an’ ownin’ property in 
New York, but he wanted a few hundred to tide him 


CHENTINGTON PRESSES HIS SUIT. 


253 


over fer the present, an’ so on. Yer know how he 
kin talk, as though his tongue were greased, an’ he’d 
discovered th’ secret of ’petual motion.” 

The Fool smiled, and Pont struck Big Dan’s 
hairy fist, that rested on the window-sill, with his 
paw. In appearance, the fist and the paw were very 
much alike. Dan filled his lungs with night air, and 
continued : 

‘‘The Squire ’emd and ’emd,” and croaked like a 
Spring frog, and then it came ter th’ security, an’ 
thefs where I listened. Yer see,” he chuckled, “I 
wanted ter know if Hinman’s security wer’ eny bet- 
ter’n mine. Well, Chentington, with a string of his 
New York English, told th’ Squire what he’d give 
him for security, an’ thet's where I nearly fell off 
of — well, never mind where I wer’, I nearly fainted 
— an’ I ain’t fainted since Tom Bidder set up th’ 
drinks. ’Twas the fust time thet Tom was ever 
known to forgit himself, and — I fainted ; an’ it tuck 
two hours ter bring me to.” Again his listener 
smiled. Dan’s exaggerations were delivered with 
such convincing simplicity that it was restful to 
listen to him. 

“Now, Lem, th’ boys always called yer ‘Th’ Fool,’ 
but I know thet yer a damn smart feller, ’n’ I want 
yer ter guess what Chentington hed ter offer fer 
security.” 


254 


THE FOOL. 


‘'Impossible The Fool replied. 

“He offered his note fer security, fer, in three 
months’ time, he’s a goin’ ter marry Betty Nicker- 
son.” Big Dan paused to observe the effect of his 
words. Astonishment had taken possession of his 
listener, and neither spoke for a full minute. 

“Marry Betty,” exclaimed The Fool. 

“Marry Betty,” repeated Dan; “said it was all 
fixed with Uncle John Nickerson, an’ yer know 
who’ll git all his money — Betty’ll git every damn 
cent, an’ he’s got a mortgage on half th’ town, owns 
railroad stock, an’ bank stock, an’ farm stock. 


“Impossible!” said The Fool, “I can’t believe it! 
I won’t believe it ! Chentington ” 

“Now yer’ve hit it,” said Big Dan excitedly. “It’s 
a lie! Chentington’s playin’ th’ Squire!” 

“But th’ Squire wouldn’t give him the money on 
that possibility.” 

“Thet’s where yer mistaken, Lemmie; an’ thet’s 
where I nearly fainted th’ second time. Th’ Squire 
discounted a five hundred dollar note, twenty-five 
per cent., an’ give Chentington th’ money; an’ th’ 
Squire’s got th’ note.” 

A pause ensured broken by Big Dan. “Now, I’ll 
bet five ter one thet th’ Squire never gits a cent ! I 
know th’ Squire’s stuck. Don’t I know Betty Nick- 


CHENTINGTON PRESSES HIS SUIT, 


255 


erson ? Ther’s not a finer gal on th' Cape ; an’ she’s 
th’ last one as’d hev anything ter do with Chenting- 
ton — even if he do call on her reglar.” 

The Fool was silent. He agreed with Big Dan, 
but it was a subject he did not care to discuss. He 
handed his visitor a bank bill. 

‘'Don’t repeat what you have heard for the pres- 
ent, Dan, it might do harm.” With a parting good- 
night, his visitor took his departure. 

Pont did not understand one-half that Dan had 
said; but he realized that it concerned Betty, and 
he appeared much interested. He rolled his eyes 
up at his master, who, apparently, was not in a mood 
for discussion. 

The pipe was brought into requisition to facilitate 
thinking; and, while the rings of smoke, with lan- 
guid grace, curled above his head, The Fool took 
the pipe from his mouth, and his merry laugh rang 
upon the stillness. Pont looked his surprise. His 
master spoke: 

“If Chentington has succeeded in swindling the 
Squire, it will break the old man’s heart. After all, 
the proverb holds true — it takes a thief to catch a 
thief. But we must keep Betty’s name out of this 
affair at any cost. What a rascal Chentington is.” 

Threatening clouds were scudding across the 
moonless sky; the wind soughed around the corner 


256 


THE FOOL. 


of the house; and the clatter of loose blinds added 
to the wildness of the night. The air was warm, 
and the south wind came in fitful puffs. It was what 
seamen term a '‘weather breeder.’’ No rain had 
fallen for some weeks; the ground was dry and 
parched; and the black clouds, and gusts of sultry 
air foretold the coming of a storm. Death was on 
the wing, journeying from afar, and the despair- 
ing, lamenting cry of the night wind heralded the 
unwelcome visitor. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 


THE REVENGE OF ROARING DAVE. 

The next morning gave promise of one of those 
uncomfortable October days when the heat is more 
oppressive than in midsummer. The sky was over- 
cast, and the sighing wind tore the few remaining 
leaves from the trees, and sent them scurrying in 
clouds along the sandy road, till they cuddled to- 
gether — rustling a protest — under the protection of 
wall and hedge. The pine trees sighed and fretted, 
and cried that Summer was dead, dead, dead; and 
that the Winter was on its way to complete the de- 
struction of whatever glory yet remained. 

The Fool sat on the stoop in the rear of Dave’s 
house and looked seaward. 

“Coin’ outside by and by. Go ’long, Lemmie?” 

'‘Yes,” came the answer. 

'Tt’ll be rough outside,” said Dave. "Don’t 
think it will rain. Can't tell, though, this time of 
year. Reg’lar storm breeder. These sudden puffs 
of wind play the deuce with a sailboat. Guess they 
won’t scare us, eh?” 


THE FOOL. 


258 

The Fool laughed. What, he thought, could 
frighten his companion. 

“We might take the guns along,” said Dave, “and 
get a few birds. Just th’ day fer ’em. What yer 
say?” 

His visitor agreed, and after shutting up the 
house, they took their fowling pieces, and rowed 
out to Dave’s sailboat. Chentington, with a gun in 
his hand, came down to the boat-landing just as 
they pulled away. Dave did not indicate that he 
saw him, and his companion remained silent. 

Neither of the men spoke for some time; and the 
boat scudded along under reefed sails. The 
erratic wind would die to a breeze, and 
then a succession of sudden gusts would make the 
boat fairly leap through the water. It required con- 
stant care and skilful handling, and Dave gave his 
undivided attention to its management. Of a sud- 
den the wind died to a whisper. 

“Lemmie,” said Dave, “I’ve been wantin’ ter talk 
ter yei fer some time, but I hevn’t hed th’ courage. 
My heart’s bin as heavy as thet piece of lead ther’, 
an’ th’ life’s gone out er me.” 

A puff of wind interrupted. The sails suddenly 
filled, and the boat lurched forward. In the tone of 
the fisherman was a note of hopeless sorrow, that 
echoed trouble which seemed beyond mending. It 


THE REVENGE OF ROARING DAVE. 259 

Struck to the heart of his listener, for he realized 
that he could offer no word of advice or sympathy. 
He knew the cause of his friend’s down-heartedness 
— knew that hope, however faint, that he clung to, 
w^as giving way before the prospect of losing forever 
the love that had been the one gleam of brightness 
in his lonely life. The Fool did not reply, for he 
could give but words of cheer that would be as 
empty as hope seemed vain. Yet, he believed that 
Betty loved the fisherman ; but he could not under- 
stand why she received Chentington; and, though 
he scoffed at what Big Dan had told him, he could 
not drive it from his mind. The uncertain wind 
was exasperating, and to make the running of the 
boat less arduous, Dave took another reef in the sail. 

‘'Lemmie,’’ he asked suddenly, ‘‘d’yer think she 
loves ’im?'' He spoke as if he realized that his com- 
panion had divined his thoughts. 

‘‘No,’’ came the laconic reply. The Fool’s tone 
was positive. 

“I wish I could believe it, but I can’t.” Sorrow 
was in his voice. In his luminous, dark-hazel eyes 
was the expression of a wounded deer. “I thought,” 
he continued meditatively, “that she might learn to 
care for me — that she might forget that I was older 
’n she was ; that, perhaps, she could see that I loved 
her, with a great, everlasting love. An’ I said ter 


26 o 


THE FOOL. 


myself that she might get used ter my ways, an^ 
forget that I wer’ rough, and plain, an’ not as good 
as she.” 

His eyes, as he spoke, looked over the choppy sea 
into the realms of memory, and he seemed uncon- 
scious of his companion. The heart gates were 
open, and the flood surged forth unchecked. After 
a confinement that had cost him many hours of 
heartache, reserve had burst its bounds, and he felt 
the relief that his confidences brought. He con- 
tinued : 

“But ’twas no use — it was Fall trying to join 
hands with Spring — Fd forgotten the long Summer 
between. Her life is opening, like a rosebud on a 
June morning; and mine’s like the hardy, September 
flower, that is nigh on to frost-time. I knew all 
thet, yet loved, and foolishly hoped and loved the 
more. I don’t think I’ll stay ’round here if she gits 
married.” He turned his eyes on his companion. 
“I don’t think ’twould be right, for I couldn’t help 
lovin’ her. D’yer think it would, Lemmie?” 

The Fool did not immediately reply. The sorrow 
that had struck deep into the life of this man, moved 
him in no small degree. The recital of his trouble 
was like a hurricane that strikes a tree, sturdy and 
storm-tried, wrenching at its life-giving roots until 
it threatens to fall before the wind’s onslaught. 


THE REVENGE OF ROARING DAVE. 


261 


‘‘Dave,” replied The Fool to his question, “hope 
on. Don't give up yet.” 

The fisherman shook his head. “No use,” he 
said, “no use. I hoped, 'n hoped, till hope seemed 
ter laugh at me. 'Tain't like as if we wer' equals. 
I've no right ter love her — I know it. But it grew 
stronger and stronger, an' now — it's like tearin' my 
heart out.” 

He continued with the confession of his hopeless 
love, in a tone that was lifeless; and he bared the 
inner recesses of his heart to the man who listened, 
and who could offer no word of hope, of sym- 
pathy, of encouragement. It was a love, pure, ideal- 
istic; and the thoughts the fisherman uttered 
were all the more noble and chivalrous, for that 
they were clothed in language rough, and with a 
total unconsciousness of their lofty sentiment. He 
was unschooled, yet his thoughts, at times, verged 
on the poetic — the more beautiful because of the un- 
conventional language in which he voiced them. 

The erratic wind rose and fell. It was working 
around to the northeast ; and the heat of the morn- 
ing was deadened. The temperature had lowered 
perceptibly, and a warning, whistling wind foretold 
an early breaking of the storm. Sea-gulls and game 
birds skimmed the water; and the report of firearms 
told that sportsmen were in waiting on the sliore 


262 


THE FOOL. 


for the flocks of game birds that would be driven 
in by the storm. 

There had been a long silence before Dave again 
spoke — his manner and language as tempestuous 
as the sea, that broke at the bow of their boat, and 
the spray beat into their faces with the sting of a 
whiplash. 

“He endangered our lives for the sake of the 
money he had up on the race. He’s a murderer at 
heart, an’ she’ll marry him. No, by Heaven, she 
won’t! I’ll give him a fair chance for his life, an’ 
if he don’t kill me — well, he’ll never marry her, any- 
how.” 

The rising wind moaned ominously, whipping the 
sea into foam and lifting sheets of spray which 
dashed into the faces of the two men. They were 
nearing the fishing nets, and, after an hour’s work, 
made difficult and dangerous by the increasing wind 
and rough sea, they lay their course for the beach 
to try their luck at the wild fowl that the storm was 
driving in shore. 

They met with only moderate success. Dave, 
usually an enthusiastic gunner, was preoccupied, 
and soon tired of the sport; and, as the rain had 
begun falling, and the storm was increasing in vio- 
lence, they started on their homeward journey. 

It was a day when only experienced and courage- 






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Page 263 


THE REVENGE OF ROARING DAVE. 263 

ous boatsmen would venture out, and no sails were 
in sight. The wind had assumed the proportions of 
a gale, whistling through the rigging, and howling 
a warning to the two men; the sky had darkened, 
and the gray mist and flying spray almost hid the 
shore. 

“Bad day to be out, Lem,” cried Dave. 

The Fool’s answer was drowned in the roar of 
the storm. Dave sat at the helm ; the sail was well 
reefed, and they were scudding before the wind 
with almost bare poles. The fisherman managed the 
sail from his seat in the stern, while his companion 
sat opposite, facing him. 

Of a sudden, Dave peered ahead through the 
gathering gloom and the flying spray. The Fool 
turned and followed his glance. They saw at first 
but the outlines of a boat, directly in their course; 
but as they drew nearer it became apparent that it 
was disabled and entirely at the mercy of the sea. 
Dave, with head bent forward, watched the move- 
ments of the craft. 

“Can you make her out?” Excitement lent add- 
ed power to The Fool’s voice. 

An odd expression flashed across Dave’s face. 
Into his eyes came a tigerish gleam. His lips were 
compressed, and a look of determination overspread 
his features, as though he had come to a sudden re- 


264 


THE FOOL. 


solve. The Fool watched him narrowly, wondering 
at the set, almost ferocious expression that his feat- 
ures assumed. 

“It’s Chentington,” Dave fairly hissed the words. 

The Fool turned about quickly. The boat ahead 
of them was in the trough of the sea — the boom 
swinging from side to side: the sail was in rib- 
bons, and rope and tackling were at the mercy of the 
wind. Chentington stood by the mast, the picture 
of terror; for he had lost every vestige of judgement, 
of self-control. 

Only by a miracle had the boat survived; and 
every wave that dashed against her side threatened 
to swamp it. 

A glance was all that was necessary to show the 
two men that death, even then, was hovering over 
the occupant of the doomed boat. 

The Fool watched his companion narrowly. By 
the changing expression on the face before him, he 
could see the struggle that was going on in the heart 
and the mind of the fisherman. Hate for his rival 
still had the mastery; but the better part of the 
man’s nature was battling against it. If Chenting- 
ton were to be saved, not a moment was to be lost. 
His cry of terror and appeal cleft the storm and 
struck upon their ears. But it was not the cry that 
moved Dave — for his brave heart and his conscience 


THE REVENGE OF ROARING DAVE. 265 

had already spoken. The Fool had remained silent, 
watching the struggle. The next instant seemed 
an eternity. He was sure of the outcome — he was 
not disappointed. 

They passed the sinking craft, and, with skill and 
daring, Dave brought his boat about to the wind. 

“Take the helm,’' he cried in ringing tones, “hold 
her steady; bring her up close. If he don’t jump 
and swamp us, I may save him.” 

The Fool took the helm, and, with the judgment 
of a trained seaman, brought the boat close to the 
sinking craft. 

Had Chentington remained where he had been 
standing, all would have been well ; but, as The Fool 
brought their craft alongside, Chentington attempt- 
ed to reach the stern of his boat. It was a fatal 
move — the boat lurched suddenly, the swinging 
boom struck him in the head with terrific force, and 
he fell, limp, and apparently lifeless, into the water. 
Reaching over the side of the boat, Dave grasped 
Chentington’s clothing just as he was about to sink, 
and, dragging him to the stern, lifted him from the 
water and laid him on the bottom of their boat. 
Taking the helm, he brought his craft about and 
steered for the shore. 

Neither Dave nor The Fool had spoken a word. 
It had all occurred so quickly, that it had been more 


266 


THE FOOL. 


a matter of seconds than of minutes. The fisher- 
man’s left arm had been disabled, but he gave it no 
attention; neither did he remark upon it. He was 
the first to attempt to speak, for the howling wind 
made conversation difficult. 

“Only stunned,” he said, casting a hasty glance 
at Chentington. “The boom gave him a terrible 
clip.” Already a note of sympathy was creeping 
into the voice which, a few hours before, had been 
vowing the death of his rival. 

Every instant their own boat was in danger, yet 
The Fool smiled — Dave had forgotten his revenge. 
His left arm hung useless at his side ; the muscles of 
his face twitched with pain; but he said nothing. 
His right hand held the tiller, and he steered for a 
small inlet that made into the shore. It was the 
nearest point of land, and directly behind Betty’s 
home. Realizing his intention. The Fool asked : 

“Going to land here ?” 

“Yes,” came the answer. “ ’Twill save time. We 
must get him under cover, and do something to 
bring him to. My God! I’ve saved him for her; 
but my hope is dead, dead.” 

He ran the boat into the inlet, and on to the 
beach, which was protected by a point of land that 
jutted into the bay, and jumped into the shoal wa- 
ter. In an instant The Fool was in the water 


THE REVENGE OF ROARING DAVE. 267 

with him, and together they pulled the boat as far 
in shore as was possible, and made her fast. 

‘‘Give me a hand, Lemmie,'' he said, “and lift him 
on to my shoulder. My left arm is of no use.’’ 

Together they lifted Chentington, and the fisher- 
man bore him on his back, the body resting over 
his left shoulder. With his uninjured arm he 
grasped the body tightly, and they proceeded up the 
steep incline to the side door of Betty’s home. 

They entered the door which The Fool opened, 
and were met by Betty and Aunt Martha. On their 
faces was stamped the fear and alarm that filled 
them. 

Dave gently placed Chentington on a couch and 
turned to Betty. His eyes were on the floor and his 
voice was husky. 

“He was in his boat,” he said softly, “the sail was 
gone and she was sinkin’. The boom struck him. 
He’s only stunned. Don’t be a feered — he’ll live.” 

Aunt Martha had left the room to procure re- 
storatives. The Fool had quietly departed and 
Dave and Betty were alone. He raised his head and 
met her gaze fixed upon his face. Her lips trem- 
bled, and, in her tear-bedimmed eyes, he saw a look 
of tender, loving concern, that made his heartbeats 
quicken with sickening speed ; and a weakness, new 
and strange, seemed to overcome him. His throat 


268 


THE FOOL, 


closed, and his power of speech threatened to leave 
him, but he gulped out : 

“I saved him fer yer. I thought yer would be 
glad/’ 

With a queenly grace she reached for his hand, 
and raised it to her lips. It was the left hand that 
was nearest to her. 

He did not feel the pain, neither did his fingers 
respond to her touch; for the bone in the arm had 
been broken half-way to the elbow — a fragment of 
the bone protruding through the flesh. But the 
touch of her lips deadened all sense of pain and 
thrilled him. Their eyes met. 

‘T saw you go out,” she said tremulously; ‘T 
prayed through the storm for your safe return.” 

In her happiness the tears welled forth; and the 
frame of the strong man before her trembled. No 
further word was spoken by either, but she lay close 
to his heart, with his uninjured arm about her, and 
her lips pressed to his. No declaration of love was 
needed — none was given. Their hearts had met in 
a bond of love stronger than ever tongue had 
framed. It was the meeting of minds, of hearts, of 
souls; and their unspoken vow was recorded in a 
language which they understood. Fate had mated 
them, and forged the links in the chain of love after 
a pattern of her own design. 



THE TOUCH OF HER LIPS DEADENED ALL SENSE OF PAIN. 

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THE REVENGE OF ROARING DAVE, 269 


Aunt Martha’s returning steps roused them to 
the duty before them. 

‘^ril go ter th’ village fer th’ doctor,” mumbled 
Dave. 

But The Fool had anticipated him, and the village 
doctor entered. He examined Chentington care- 
fully, and his touch was light and his face grave. 

''Bad injury,” he said, "I fear concussion of the 
brain.” 

He advised his removal to the hotel. "I will pro- 
cure a trained nurse,” he added; "can’t tell what 
these injuries will lead to. From the nature of his 
wound it is a serious one.” 

Within the hour Chentington was moved to the 
hotel, where the doctor took charge of him. 

Dave and The Fool proceeded homeward through 
the storm. The fisherman’s manner was an enigma 
to his companion, who could not understand the 
change that had come over him. He laughed and 
roared by turns, and indulged in extravagant refer- 
ence to the ways of Heaven, that are guided by no 
compass, and that "sails agin th’ wind as like as any 
other way.” He was sure that he had been a fool 
all his life, and that "only to-day had Heaven, in its 
goodness, endowed him with the judgment and 
sense of a man.” All of which The Fool listened 


2^0 


THE FOOL, 


to with becoming interest, and a faint suspicion that 
the late happenings had unsettled the fisherman’s 
mind. 

They halted before Dave’s house. 

“Lemmie,” said Dave, taking The Fool’s hand in 
his own, which was an unusual thing for him to do, 
as was the squeeze he gave the fingers, “I’m so 
derned happy that I jest can’t talk ter yer! I want 
ter go inter th’ house, an’ shet myself up an’ holler ! 
Ef I don’t, I’ll bust! Then I want ter think, and 
ter-morrer I want yer ter come over early, an’ I’ll 
tell yer all about it.’’ Another squeeze of the hand 
he held that threatened every bone. He was about 
to leave, then as an afterthought: “Gum! I clean 
forgot about my arm — it’s broke! Never mind, the 
doctor’s cornin’ over soon’s he gits through with 
Chentington. No, yer can’t do anything,’’ he re- 
plied to The Fool’s offer; “and if old Pillslinger 
does not set that arm in ten minutes after he gits 
here. I’ll fire him out er th’ house. Go on home, 
boy, an’ come over early.” And The Fool, notwith- 
standing the fury of the storm, went slowly on his 
way, wondering at the change that had come oyer 
Dave. 

“What has happened to him ?” He would not re- 
joice over Chentington’s injury. He’d say he 


THE REVENGE OF ROARING DAVE, 


271 


would, but he wouldn't. I know him better than 
he knows himself. For one short minute to-day he 
had the intention of letting Chentington drown. 
That is, he tried to make himself believe it. Bah! 
He wouldn't harm a fly! But what has come to 
him?" With a broken arm, laughing and talking 
of Heaven and women all the way home — I wonder 
what he and Betty had to say to each other ? After 
Chentington had been taken to the hotel, she looked 
radiantly happy about something. I wonder — Dave 
is half crazy with joy." 

He reached the door of his home, where, before 
he could open it, Pont barked all sorts of welcome. 

‘"Well," said his master, as he entered, ‘‘been a 
good dog?" He stood in the center of the floor and 
waited for a reply. 

It came in all kinds of languages, and with wild, 
energetic warmth, interspersed with dancing steps 
which would have done credit to the trained species, 
that make a living for their lazy owners. 

“Ah ! Pont, I know someone who loves his mas- 
ter. Be a good dog, and I'll get supper. I'm wet, 
tired, and, would you believe it. I'm as hungry — 
well as hungry as a dog I know, and he's always 
hungry." 

Pont voiced his delight ; and when his master had 


THE FOOL. 


373 

changed his clothes, and the fire crackled and roared, 
filling the room with cheery, dancing light, the dog 
teased for a sweet biscuit, until given one by his 
master. 

They sat down together to the evening meal, and, 
while they ate and talked, it was no easy matter to 
say which of the two was the more contented. 

The evening wore into the night, the glowing 
flames in the grate danced their dance with noisy 
mirth, and the shadows rioted over the wall and 
ceiling. Intermittently, the wind drove the rain in 
splashing sheets against the window panes, at times 
drowning the song the blazing logs were singing. 
The Fool interrupted the music. 

“Pont, of all human creatures, and all living 
things, the most unfathomable, and the least open 
to the reason and judgment with which all mortals 
are, to a greater or lesser degree, endowed, is a man 
or a woman in love. He or she is a mass 
of vague unreasoning contradictions. Pont, never 
fall in love, for when you do, the last vestige 
of common-sense will forsake you. I wonder 
what Dave is doing? Forgot that his arm was 
broken, and all because of Betty’s eyes. And what 
lovely eyes she has ! Only they talk unconsciously 
sometimes. I wonder what they said to Dave to- 
day. He’s as mad with joy as an English tailor 


THE REVENGE OF ROARING DAVE. 


*73 


who has had too much Irish whiskey, 
do you think of it all?” 

Pont replied that he didn’t know, 
derstand it at all. 

“Neither do I,” said his master. 


Pont, what 
Couldn’t un- 


CHAPTER XIX. 


DAVE AND BETTY SURPRISE AUNT MARTHA. 

The storm continued throughout the night with 
increasing fury. The trees were stripped of their 
last remaining leaves and gloom and desolation 
spread over the face of the land. 

At an early hour The Fool was astir, and it was 
not yet seven o'clock when he entered Dave's house. 

He was greeted with a roar, and Dave's hand 
came down on his shoulder with a force that stag- 
gered him. Apparently the fisherman's happiness 
of the night before continued. Another roar and 
then : 

‘‘Lemmie, yer dern little cuss, how air yer?" 
Without waiting for a reply he went on: ^^Never 
slept a wink all night. Hev yer had breakfast? 
Try some of my coffee; 'twon't kill yer! Yer'd 
drink a cup if I told yer who taught me how ter 
make it. Sit down, yer rascal." 

The Fool smiled. Who would not smile at the 
boyish ardor, the laughing good-nature, and the 


AUNT MARTHA SURPRISED. 


»7S 


happiness that was bubbling from the eyes of the 
man who was still a child. 

His visitor ignored the volley of questions, and 
asked: “How is your arm, Dave?” 

“Ho!” he roared. “Heven’t hed time ter think 
of it. The old man set it. Sez I’ll hev to carry it in 
this harness fer a month.” He looked with disgust 
at the sling which supported his arm. “Guess it 
ached some, but I didn’t feel it. Lemmie, I’m so 
dern happy that I want ter holler. Been hollerin’ 
all night. Wonder ef anybody heered me?” 

He poured a cup of coffee and set it before his 
visitor. “Drink it! It’s good, if I did make it. 
Here’s the cream and sugar. Ain’t got anything ter 
eat. Heven’t hed anything in th’ house fer a week 
’cept canned stuff. I wonder how Chentington’s 
head feels? Must have a headache this mornin’. 
Say, boy, fer about one minute yesterday Chenting- 
ton was never before so near death ; nor will he be 
again; fer I was goin’ ter let him fight it out him- 
self. An’ then — well, then I couldn’t bring myself 
ter see him drown like a rat, an’ thet's when I sung 
out ter yer ter take th’ helm, and oh! I’m so glad 
we saved him, for, boy, she never cared for him, 
never. She’s mine, son, mine. All mine. D’yer 
understand, Lemmie? Ho! D’yer understand?” 


THE FOOL. 


*76 

His uninjured hand came down on the table and the 
dishes rattled. 

The Fool was beginning to understand, yet he 
wished the fisherman to disclose the cause of his 
happiness in his own way, and in his own good time. 

'T know that you appear supremely happy, Davie, 
but I can hardly attribute it to a broken arm; and, 
as yet, nothing more definite is manifest.’’ 

‘‘Lemmie, where’d yer learn all them big words? 
Out of them books yer got in th’ bookcase? or air 
yer tryin’ ter play it on yer Uncle Davie? Broken 
arms don’t count. It’s the broken hearts thet tell; 
an’ mine was nigh ter splittin’. But, boy, it’s all 
over; fer when yer went fer th’ doctor, we jest 
looked into each other’s eyes and we knew. An’ 
she’s mine, Lemmie, an’ I’m so dem happy thet I’d 
like ter kick this table over, dishes an’ all ; an’ I will 
if yer say th’ word.” 

The Fool smiled. He was satisfied that Dave 
meant what he said. ‘T wouldn’t,” he replied 
calmly. ‘T’m glad for you, Davie, but I’m not at 
all surprised. I always knew who Betty loved.” 

‘'Did yer? Yer sly little cuss! An’ yer never 
told me!” 

The Fool laughed. The door opened and Big 
Dan stood before them. 

“He’s dead,” he said abruptly. 


AUNT MARTHA SURPRISED. 


277 


‘‘Who’s dead?” asked Dave. 

“Chentingtoii,” replied Big Dan shortly. “Died 
this mornin’ at five A.M. Another soul gone ter 
glory. I suppose you fellers expect me ter say 
somethin’ pretty. Well, I won’t! He was damn 
mean when he were alive; an’ his being dead don’t 
change it a bit.” 

The faces of the men at the table betrayed their 
feeling of consternation. Big Dan assumed a se- 
rene smile, which might mean anything from pious 
resignation to demoniac glee. The chances were in 
favor of the latter. 

“Well,” he continued, “you chaps ain’t goin’ inter 
mournin’, air yer? Ther’s one satisfaction,” he 
chuckled, “he stuck the Squire.” And disregarding 
the warning look from The Fool, or the scowling 
glance that Dave bestowed upon him, the festive 
Dan laughed uproariously. His mirth — not being 
reinforced — with mock seriousness, he continued: 

“Not bein’ in entire sympathy with yer sorrer, 
gentlemen, an’ yer not takin’ kindly ter th’ way I 
hev of expressin’ my great grief fer th’ departed, 
I’ll take my leave. O revow, as we say abroad.” 
With placid and child-like mien, he smiled himself 
out of the room and the house. 

“Dem if thet ain’t sudden,” said Dave, after Dan 
had gone. 


278 


THE FOOL, 


‘'Very/' said his companion. 

“Well," broke in the fisherman with a serious air, 
“Fve nothin' ter say agin a dead man — he can’t 
defend himself. Th' fairest way's ter say nothin'. 
He cost me many an hour of worry; an’ ther' wer' 
times, when I wer' alone, thet if he'd a stood before 
me, I'd a killed him. I would hev, Lerqmie, though 
I'd been sorry fer it afterward; for at those times 
I were as crazy as a March hare. I blamed him fer 
stealin’ Betty from me, God bless her, an’ now I 
know I was wrong. I don't harbor any ill-will agin 
him ; an' I'm sorry he came to his death th' way he 
did; an’ I'm glad that we tried ter save him." 

He mused a while, and the tick-tock of the clock, 
and the swirl of the storm outside were the only 
sounds. He spoke again — his tones tuned to the 
gentle pitch of a woman's voice. 

“Ther' wer' a time when I thought he meant ill 
with Nannie, an' I watched him close fer a while; 
fer, yer see, she never had a mother ter advise her, 
an' she didn't know. How could she tell what a 
man like him wer’, an’ what his soft words meant? 
It wer' different with Betty. She'd been brought 
up by her Aunt Martha ; she knew the world better, 
an’ her mind was strong — she was safe. But Nan- 
nie hed no one but me; an' if anything had happened 
I’d a felt thet I'd been ter blame. If he'd wronged 


AUNT MARTHA SURPRISED. 


279 


her, all I could have done wer’ ter kill him. Td a 
done thet if he’d wronged my little gal, Fd a done it ; 
even if it had been too late to save her. But ther’ I 
wer’ wrong agin ; an’ I’m sorry thet I ever thought 
of him as I did; an’ I only wish he’d lived till I 
could have asked his forgiveness.” 

The Fool could stand no more. Rising hastily 
he stood before the window and looked out on the 
desolate day. Dave busied himself about the work, 
and the silent figure at the window mused upon the 
sorrow that he believed was in store for the fisher- 
man. His heart was wrung with the thought that he, 
himself, had perhaps been an unconscious accom- 
plice to Nan’s wasted life. Why had he not spoken 
before her departure for New York? Yet, though 
he accused himself, it was only subsequent events 
which would have made his interference warrant- 
able ; and these had come to his knowledge when it 
was too late for him to speak. The fisherman’s 
voice interrupted his thoughts. 

‘‘Lemmie, don’t look so downhearted. We’ll do 
what’s right, an’ give Chentington a decent burial. 
Thet’s all we’re called on ter do. This is a day 
when I’m goin’ ter be happy, an’ I want yer ter join 
me, and be as happy as I am. Yer see, yer little 
cuss, I know yer from yer toes up; an’ I like yer, 
and Betty likes yer, an’ so does Nannie — ^yer belong 


28 o 


THE FOOL, 


ter us. Say!'’ he exclaimed suddenly, holding the 
tea kettle in his uninjured hand and turning to his 
visitor, “what did Big Dan mean when he said that 
Chentington stuck the Squire?" As was his cus- 
tom, he did not wait for a reply and continued : “Oh, 
the big lubber don't know what he's a talkin' of half 
th' time. He has a tenement ter let in his upper 
story. He's as lazy as th' Squire is mean:; but he's 
a dern good feller all th' same. Wonder where he 
got th' five hundred ter bet on th' boat race?" 

No information being forthcoming, having set 
the room to rights, he addressed his visitor. 

“Work's all done, Lem. Pretty good fer a one 
arm man, huh? Coin' over ter th' hotel, now, an' 
see that everything's bein' done fer Chentington's 
funeral. He hesn't a relative that I know of, an' 
dern few friends. I wonder ef he left any money? 
Heard thet he was behind at th' hotel. Well, ef no 
one else'll bury him, I will." 

The glance The Fool bestowed upon the speaker 
was eloquent, but conveyed no meaning to the 
fisherman. “I imagine that he had money," he 
answered. Then, as Dave went out with the dog's 
breakfast, he continued softly, “and they say that a 
title makes a nobleman. Dave, in you, lack of edu- 
cation and opportunity lost to mankind a model of 
what a man should be. Even the world's debasing 


AUNT MARTHA SURPRISED, 


281 


influence could not defile a heart that God bestows 
upon but few. Could the price of Nan's return to 
you, as happy as when she left her home, be my 
aimless, loveless life, then would I believe that God 
had given to me a mission which I had humbly 
filled." 

“Come, Lemmie," came the cheery voice from the 
door, let’s go ’long." 

As they passed from the protection of the house, 
the storm struck them with vicious energy, and the 
rain pelted into their faces. Dave had thrown an 
oil-coat over his shoulders, closely buttoned in front 
to protect his injured arm. The Fool was thinly 
clad, and wore no extra clothing to protect him 
from the storm. In this respect he was careless, 
even reckless, of consequences. 

“Lem, where be yer oil-coat?" said Dave. “Yer’ll 
get wet through." 

“I don’t mind th’ storm," came the answer. 

“Well, I mind it fer yer; an’ th’ next time yer 
come out in th’ wet in thet rig. I’ll send yer home 
fer yer sou’easter." 

The Fool laughed. 

“Oh, yer needn’t laflf." A pause. Then : 

“Lemmie, when I’m married ’’ he stopped 

abruptly in confusion. His rain-drenched face be- 
came scarlet. “Oh, yer needn’t smile," he blurted 


282 


(THE FOOL. 


'Tvt got ter git used ter sayin’ it. Well, when 

we’re married ” it was difficult to get beyond 

the word, want yer ter come and live with us.” 

His companion smiled grimly. ‘‘I fear I would 
be a poor addition to your home, Davie. But little 
joy goes with me. Fate ruled that I should work 
out my destiny alone. I am content in a way — as 
happy as I ever hope to be. Pont understands me, 
and we get on well together.” 

“Poor Lemmie!” The storm drowned the words. 
They were before Betty’s home, and the fisherman 
entered the gate. The Fool proceeded on his way 
to the village. 

Betty had seen them approaching. Uncle John 
stood before the open grate in the kitchen. A pair 
of plump arms twined about his neck. 

“Uncle John,” the voice was coaxingly sweet, “I 
told you when I found the man I love as well as I 
love you, one who had asked me to be his wife, I 
would come to you and put my arms about your 
neck like this ” 

“Yes.” 

“And I would kiss you on the cheek like this.” 
She pressed her lips to his withered cheek. 

“Yes, Betty dear.” 

“Well, Uncle John,” she said timidly, “he is now 


AUNT MARTHA SURPRISED. 


283 


coming in the front yard. Won^t you open the door 
for him?"’ 

‘'Goodness me, Betty, who are you talking 
about?’’ 

“You’ll meet him at the door,” she said rogu- 
ishly. She gently pushed him toward the door lead- 
ing to the sitting room. It had been many years 
since he had stepped as lightly. He opened the 
door. Dave, all smiles, entered and held out his 
hand to Uncle John, who stood, speechless, looking 
at the fisherman. 

“Betty,” he called, “Betty Nickerson.” 

She came with downcast eyes, scarlet discoloring 
her beautiful face. Uncle John indicated the fish- 
erman with his thumb. Dave stood on the threshold, 
his attitude that of a boy caught with his pockets 
full of apples. - 

“Be it him?” Uncle John’s tone was incredulous. 

Betty nodded her head. She was studying the 
figures in the carpet. 

Uncle John looked fiercely at the man standing 
before him. 

“Dave Kurran,” his vioce was not reassuring, 
“have you been stealing my little gal’s heart?” 

Dave was on the defensive. “She stole mine 
first,” he replied hotly. 

“Well, ef yer could a done it right under my eyes. 


284 


■THE FOOL. 


an’ I not know what was goin’ on, I’ve nothin’ ter 
say.” He held out his hand to Dave, and was sorry 
for just so long as the fisherman held it. It had 
been many a day since he had felt such a grip. Dave 
wrung the hand that he held with warmth and, when 
he smilingly released it. Uncle John wrung it 
again — with pain. 

“Take her, Davie, she belongs ter yer; but it’ll 
take me some time ter forgive yer fer havin’ fooled 
me.” And he hurried off to take Aunt Martha’s 
breath away with the narrative of the facts of the 
case, and to quietly laugh at her for never having 
guessed the truth. 

What took place after his departure was of al- 
together too sacred a nature to be recorded here. 
Before Aunt Martha’s arrival on the scene, the con- 
fessions, confidences and terms of endearment of 
the lovers resolved into fragmentary bits like the 
following : 

“ Do behave yourself and listen no, that 

wasn’t the first time you called — I kin tell yer ther 

th’ very day, it wer’ Davie dear, doesn’t yer arm 

pain, it must Ho! (this could be heard all 

over the house) don’t believe it’s broke at all. Feels 
splendid — (a low whisper) one more kiss (a long 
silence) Enter Aunt Martha. 

Two young people, that is, one young person, and 


AUNT MARTHA SURPRISED. 285 

one comparatively young, with a wreath of silver 
touching the edge of his hair, look up to meet 
Aunt Martha’s severely questioning eyes. The 
guilty pair, sitting on the edge of the sofa, look 
very demure and penitent. Aunt Martha pauses on 
the threshold, with arms akimho; expression aus- 
tere; head thrown back. Aunt Martha: ‘‘Well.” 

(Couple on sofa look at each other. Silence.) 

Aunt Martha : “There.” 

(Uninjured hand of man on sofa nudges young 
lady.) 

Young lady (tearfully) “Aunt Martha ” 

Man. “Em.” (rising inflection) 

Aunt Martha (with tightly pressed lips denoting 
anger “/ — de — dare.” 

Young lady (voice tremulous) “/ couldn’t help 
it, Auntie.” 

“Man. “Ho.” (Young lady looks at him in alarm 
and nudges him to be quiet.) 

(Man begins studying pattern of carpet with 
crestfallen air.) 

Young lady : “Now, Aunty dear ” 

Aunt Martha scowls, lifts her spectacles to her 
forehead. Uncle John appears behind her, raises 
both hands in the air, chuckles. Man and young 
lady look up, and, with an effort, suppress their 
laughter. 


286 


sTHE FOOL. 


Aunt Martha (smoothing her apron, also her 
feelings) ‘‘Now, Betty Nickerson, and you, Dave 
Kurran, don’t yer interrupt me in what I’m about to 


But what Aunt Martha was about to say was 
never finished. Betty kissed the words away, and 
Dave insisted on coming to the rescue; and, with 
his uninjured arm about Aunt Martha’s waist, they 
all went into the dining room, and laughed and 
talked and cried at the same time, and were very 
happy. Among other things, this from Aunt Mar- 
tha : 

“There, Davie, when you sang ‘Nearer my love 
to thee’ it jest made me think that you’d been a 
cornin’ here pretty of’en. After dinner, ef yer arm 
doesn’t pain — does it pain yer, Davie?” A derisive 
laugh was her answer. She continued: “Well, as 
I wer’ about ter say, after dinner, yer’ve got ter sing 
it fer yer Uncle John. Of course, yer goin’ ter eat 
here all th’ time. I’m not goin’ ter ’low yer ter 
live in such a heathenish manner as yer’ve been a 
livin’ since Nannie went away. Now, jest tell me 
what yer hed fer breakfast.” 

“Coffee,” he answered guiltily. 

“What else?” 

“Well, yer see ” 

“There! I jest knew it!” Her look was a rep- 


AUNT MARTHA SURPRISED, 


287 


rimand. But it was the look of concern and appre- 
hension in another pair of eyes that rested upon his 
features, that set his heart thumping. 

“Betty dear, set the table, an’ we’ll hev dinner 
in a jiffy.” 

“I take fourth place, now,” sighed Uncle John. 

“No yer don’t, either,” protested Aunt Martha 
with some warmth. “You come ahead of me; but 
there’s two ahead of you.” And her curls bobbed 
about to the music of the rattling dishes. Haste 
was necessary, for, as she confided to Betty, “dear 
Davie must be nigh starved.” 

“After dinner, Dave went to the hotel, where 
he was assured that everything had been arranged 
for Chentington’s funeral. He was informed that 
Chentington had left sufficient funds to meet all 
expenses, and nothing remained for the fisherman 
to do. 

On his return he stopped at the store. As he en- 
tered, Big Dan’s voice rose above the squeaky tones 
of the Squire, who was laboring, with more zeal 
than discretion, to make himself heard. 

“So yer’ll attach his pursenalty.” Big Dan gave 
evidence of endeavoring to surpass Dave’s lung 
power. “An’ yer’ll attach his boat, too. Well, yer 
kin get at th’ boat easier then yer kin th’ pursenalty. 


288 


THE FOOL, 


Th’ boat’s down ter th’ bottom of th’ bay. Yer’ll 
hev a darn nice time gettin’ her up.” 

^‘Em. It’s none of your affair. Em.” 

Dan chuckled. ^^What security did Chentington 
give yer?” he asked. ‘Twarn’t a note of five hun- 
dred, wer it?” 

The money lender remained silent. Dan re- 
turned to the attack. 

‘‘Honor bright, Squire, how much did yer charge 
’im? Six per cent per annum?” Dan chuckled, the 
Squire retorted : 

“Em. I charged him very little. Em. Legal 
interest, that’s all. Em.” 

“Legal interest.” Dan’s feelings nearly over- 
came him. He seemed threatened with apoplexy. 

“You withered, sneakin’, lyin’ old thief! Yer dis- 
counted thet note twenty-five per cent! An’ yer’ll 
never get — red — cent! D’yer hear? Not a red! 
Chentington stuck yer, an’ I’m damn glad of it ! It 
ought ter pass him through the gates of Paradise.” 

The Squire minced his way to the door, and, after 
casting upon Dan a withering look, mingled with 
awe, and more respect than he had ever before hon- 
ored him with, went out into the storm, followed 
by Dan’s unmusical laugh. 

“That’s worth a hundred,” declared Dan. His 
listeners agreed with him. 


AUNT MARTHA SURPRISED. 


289 


Dave was in no humor to join in their mirth, and, 
after making some purchases, proceeded on his 
Way — a way that led him through the gate of Betty's 
home. The door was open for him; for already 
they had learned to watch for his coming. 

The storm grew with the day, and night fell, 
dark, desolate, with the wind shrieking through the 
leafless trees. The Fool had piled the logs high 
upon the fire, and the warm glow bade defiance to 
the gloom without. 

‘‘A terrible night," he said. God help the poor 
sailors along the coast, and any one unfortunate 
enough to be abroad. We'll hear of the wrecks 
after the storm ceases." 

The flames leaped madly up the chimney. The 
logs sputtered and crackled, and the sparks flew in 
clouds to join the mad revel of the wind outside. 

‘T wonder what Nan is doing to-night," he 
mused. 'Toor child! She loved that man as but 
few love. He is lying dead, and she, poor, mis- 
guided girl, is waiting for him to come back to her. 
What a dreary world this is after all. Forever 
waiting for something that never comes : living on a 
hope, even when reason tells us it should die. What 
is there in this life, after all, but that intangible 
something, ever in advance of us, which we never 
overtake. A mirage ever before us, beckoning us 


290 


^THE FOOL. 


on, always on ; stretching out a hand that we never 
can grasp; smiling on us, whispering to us — luring 
us on, and always the same distance from us. Ah 
me! This life can't be the end. There must be 
something beyond, else madness would be a Heaven- 
sent blessing. Pont, what are you thinking about ?" 

The dog rose, and, coming to his master's side, 
held his head up to be petted. He, too, was ponder- 
ing a momentous question. But, though it re- 
quired less knowledge of logic, it was more ma- 
terial — far more. He could demonstrate. 

Walking to the table, he laid his finely pointed 
chin upon it. That said plainly: ‘‘This way lies 
sweet biscuit." He turned his head toward his 
master — which was equally understandable — “you, 
my master, control those biscuits — they're good for 
dogs." Then he assumed a waiting attitude, look- 
ing at neither biscuit nor master, which said almost 
audibly : “Give me one." 

The Fool could not resist language so plain. 
Pont smacked his lips and declared them delicious, 
but as to number — limited. The Fool turned to the 
window and looked out into the blackness. 

“Pont," he said, “it is a wild night. On such a 
night, sane people stay within doors, and, if they 
be of well-balanced minds, smoke, and enjoy the 
things that the good God gave to them. Thy mas- 


AUNT MARTHA SURPRISED. 


291 


ter, not being endowed with that sanity which most 
people are supposed to possess, will go out into the 
storm/' 

Pont, hearing that a going was afoot, danced 
with joy. His master shook his head and the dog 
looked disconsolate. 

‘‘No," spoke The Fool. “Thou art sane, good 
Pont. Hence, thou shalt stay within, and watch 
the logs glow, and marvel at thy master's idiosyn- 
crasies." 

Pont lay before the fire and rolled a reproachful 
eye at his master, who went out into the storm. 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE DEATH OF NAN. 

He started on his way through the driving rain. 
As he passed Dave’s house all was dark. ‘‘He is 
with Betty/’ he said, and smiled. He entered the 
Post Office in the village. Contrary to the usual 
custom, there were no loungers about the place. The 
night train had just arrived and the depot carriage 
rattled by. It was seldom that he remained a long- 
er time than was necessary to receive his mail ; but 
he was chilled by the storm, and stood beside the 
fire. The postmaster chattered volubly of current 
affairs. The Fool listened. The expression of his 
face was pensive ; his features imperturbable. It was 
generally believed that his failure to reply to what 
was said was for lack of words and ideas. He was 
not in the habit of volunteering an opinion. Gossip 
he detested. His silence the townspeople accepted 
as lack of intellect. The world does not take kindly 
to reticence — it stamps it as a proof of lack of 
knowledge. The Fool did not talk. That was suf- 
ficient evidence that he could not — hence the good 
people knew him to be a fool. 


THE DEATH OF NAN. 


293 


With a quiet good-night to the postmaster, he 
started on his return. A light shown cheerily 
through the windows of Betty's home, where he 
could see Dave in the family circle. ‘"Dave," he said 
softly, ‘‘did I think less of you, I would envy you 
your happiness. Love is the pendulum which regu- 
lates our lives. If it swing true, Heaven is not far 
removed. There must not be two Heavens," he 
mused. “Some — happy mortals — find it here; 
others, to whom it is here denied, must bide their 
time. Theirs, evidently, is not to be found on earth. 
“Who," he exclaimed abruptly, “can possibly be in 
Dave’s house? there is a light moving about — there 
must be someone within. Dave is at Betty’s, or 
else my eyes are as unbalanced as my brain." 

He was nearing Dave’s, and the shadow of some 
one moving inside was thrown against the window 
curtain. He turned into the yard. “Strange," he 
muttered. Rapping gently on the door, without 
waiting for a response, he entered. Nan sat by the 
fire — the picture of abject despair. As he ap- 
proached her, she made an effort to rise, but he gent- 
ly forced her back into the chair. 

“Nannie," he said, “you are wet through. Did 
you walk from the station?" 

“Yes," she answered feebly. 


294 


THE FOOL, 


*‘Why did you not send us word that you were 
coming?’’ 

'‘I had no time.” Her voice was tremulous. 
''Only yesterday I decided to come. Besides, I did 
not wish to alarm Uncle Dave.” 

But few — those whose instincts were whetted by 
love — would have recognized in the slight, dejected 
figure, the bloodless lips, the staring, sunken eyes, 
the Nan of a few months before. 

"What is wrong, Nannie? What has caused 
you to return so suddenly ?” 

"Nothing,” she answered feebly. Nothing is 
difYerent from what it has been — what it can be. I 
heard he was here, so I came.” 

"And do you still love him?” The Fool asked. 

"Yes,” she answered sadly, "Yes. I have tried 
not to. My God ! How I have tried ! I cannot help 
it.” 

The Fool realized that it was his duty to let her 
know the truth. He determined to tell her before 
her uncle’s return, as he wished to save the fisher- 
man the humiliation of knowing that she still loved 
Chentington. He turned his eyes upon her, with a 
glance of pity in which love still lingered. 

"Nannie dear,” he said gently, "it is too late.” 

She turned her head — a look of terror in her 
eyes and gazed at him intently. If possible, her 


THE DEATH OF NAN. 29 5 

face became whiter; her lips parted as if she were 
about to speak, but no sound came from them. He 
felt that it would be cruelty to keep her in doubt. 

‘‘He is dead.’' His voice was scarcely audible. 

She did not cry out. She did not move. Her 
eyes were still fixed in a hopeless expression upon 
the face of her companion. No tears came to ease 
her grief — only the fixed stare, the bloodless lips, 
and the labored breathing. Slowly she tried to rise 
in her seat — it was the last effort of her ebbing vital- 
ity, and she fell back into the chair in a dead faint. 

The unexpected news, and the exposure of the 
last few hours, completed the ruin that months of 
sorrow and hopeless misery had begun — her brain 
rebelled. 

The Fool lifted her in his arms, and laid her on 
the couch. The door was opened, and Dave stood 
on the threshold. 

He strode forward, and, kneeling beside her, 
kissed her cheeks, while the tears ran down his 
bronzed features. Her face was wan, and so ema- 
ciated, that she appeared as though the light of life 
had been extinguished. 

“Nannie, Nannie, Nannie,” he cried, between 
sobs that shook his huge frame. “Won’t you speak 
to your Uncle Davie? It’s me, Nannie, dear. See, 


THE FOOL, 


296 

see, little Nannie, don't you know it's me?'’ His 
voice sank into choking sobs. 

“Don't, Dave, don't," said The Fool, laying a 
hand upon his shoulder. “If you have any liquor 
in the house, force a spoonful or two into her mouth. 
I'll go for Betty and Aunt Martha. I'll not be 
long," 

Dave poured some whiskey into a spoon, and with 
patient gentleness succeeded in forcing her to swal- 
low it. He knelt beside her, and endeavored to call 
her senses to life by all the endearing names that he 
had coined in her childhood. But she gave no sign 
of returning consciousness, and the carriage bring- 
ing Betty and Aunt Martha drove up to the door. 
They entered the house and bent over Nan. To 
Aunt Martha's experienced eye her illness was of a 
more serious character than they could cope with; 
and, after a whispered command, Betty went to the 
door and directed Uncle John to go for the village 
doctor. Dave and The Fool remained in the kitchen, 
and the women, removing Nan's wet garments, 
wrapped her warmly in bed. 

Then it was that she opened her eyes ; but the look 
she bestowed upon the two women bending over her, 
filled them with sickening grief; for reason had 
gone when the knowledge of the death of the man 
she loved had come to her. 


THE DEATH OF NAN. 


297 


The doctor tempered his verdict with a desire to 
spare Dave, and only to Aunt Martha did he tell 
what he feared. A low condition of the system, 
exposure to the storm, and a shock occasioned by 
some sudden news had done its work. He feared 
brain fever, but could tell nothing until the follow- 
ing day. Care, quiet and good nursing were what 
was most required. 

Promising to call in the morning, he left them. 

Coming fast upon the heels of his joy, Dave 
seemed to be crushed and incapable of intelligent 
action; and he looked to Betty and Aunt Martha 
with a child’s yearning trust, and a faith in their 
ability to save Nan that was pathetic. 

“Was ther’ any reason fer her cornin’ home, any 
trouble?” Dave asked. 

“She said that she had suddenly decided to come,” 
was the reply. “She hadn’t time to notify us.” 

“Poor Nannie. D’yer think she’s been sick long, 
Lemmie? she looks so thin and white.” 

“She doesn’t look as though she had been well 
for some time,” was the reply. 

“An’ she wanted ter come home ter her Uncle 
Davie an’ get well. Don’t yer think that’s it, Lem- 
mie?” 

“Yes,” came the answer. 

They remained silent. The women, with nois^ 


THE FOOL. 


198 

less step, moved about the house, preparing every- 
thing for the night, for they were to remain until 
morning. With a promise to return early the next 
day. The Fool bade them good night, and went 
home. 

What the following week held for Dave, will 
never be known. By no human standard could his 
suffering be measured ; and it was only by the hope- 
less expression of his eyes, which sought those of 
Betty and Aunt Martha, as if to find some ground 
for encouragement, that he betrayed the agony 
which filled his days and nights — for he refused to 
sleep. Betty prepared the food, which, by her per- 
suasion, amounting to a command, he was induced 
to eat. 

Aunt Martha and Betty took turns nursing, re- 
fusing to allow a stranger’s hand to minister to 
Nan’s wants. In this, they were reinforced by the 
doctor; for his confidence in their ability and dis- 
cretion was complete. 

It was ^the night of the sixth day of Nan’s ill- 
ness. She had tossed unceasingly through hours of 
delirium, and, though her voice was weak, at times 
her broken sentences became almost coherent. 
Through all her ravings ran a fear, so well defined 
and consistent as, at times, to give hope to her 
listeners that reason was asserting itself. But these 


THE DEATH OF NAN, 


299 

hopes were visionary, and the momentary flashes of 
an unclouded intellect merged into childish babble, 
that rent the heart strings of her listeners. 

Betty was alone in the sick chamber. The eyes 
that Nan turned upon her glowed with fever’s 
flame. 

''Sh — ” came the voice from the bed. “Uncle 
Dave musn’t know— don’t you tell him — you said 
you wouldn’t.” She paused and fixed her staring 
eyes on the door — “Can’t you hear him? — that’s his 
step — from the races — Uncle Dave doesn’t know 
that I love him — Uncle Dave is so good, so good — 
but he mustn’t know. I’m going home to live with 
Uncle Davie, always ; and forget, forget, forget.” 

Betty smoothed the pillow and took the hand of 
the sufferer in her own. 

“Can’t you hear the applause? — at the end of the 
third act. That was my scene — three calls before 
the curtain — and the flowers! ah! they sicken 
me — flowers for success — when the heart within me 
was dead — I could never play again. Sh! I must 
go to answer the call — but that was the end — a trag- 
edy of a night — He never loved me — it was the act- 
ress Nan he loved — and she — I hated her.” 

She sighed from exhaustion and her head fell 
back on the pillow. 

Dave and The Fool were in the kitchen. Neither 


300 


THE FOOL. 


had spc4cen for several minutes, and when Betty en- 
tered, they looked up questioningly. 

“She is resting quietly,’' she said softly, “perhaps 
she will sleep.” 

Dave took her hand in his own and caressed it. 

“You must sleep, Betty, dear. I can’t have you 
sick, too. When will Aunt Martha come?” 

“In an hour,” was the reply. 

The Fool stole softly into the sick chamber, and 
knelt beside the bed. Silence reigned for some min- 
utes, and then he spoke, seemingly unconscious of 
uttering the words, which fell upon the stillness with 
the solemnity of a midnight requiem. 

“Poor Nannie, I know what you have suffered, 
for I, too, loved. You will never know, Nannie, 
but, for years, your life filled mine with a complete- 
ness — marred only by the knowledge that my love 
was as hopeless as the flight of a night bird seeking 
the realm of the stars. I held you in my arms when 
you were a little child, and you kissed me then, for 
you had not learned to look upon me as The Fool. I 
saw you pass from girlhood to womanhood, and, as, 
day by day, you grew more beautiful, so grew my 
love the more, and my hope less. Still, hope within 
me would not die, for I vainly pictured to myself 
that by study, by work, I would reach the goal where 
even you would look upon me with something akin 


THE DEATH OF NAN, 


301 

to respect, even love. And when the task seemed 
hopeless, when hideous faces of the night leered at 
me, and mocked at my grief — when my imagination 
was aflame, and madness seemed to lie in wait — I 
would come here, Nannie, after a sleepless night, 
and a word, or a look, from you would again bring 
to life the hopes, that were at once Heaven and Hell 
to my tortured existence/' 

The head on the pillow turned, until the expres- 
sionless eyes rested upon him. Her arm lay outside 
the covers, and he took the wasted hand in his own. 

Dave and Betty had noislessly approached the 
door, and had heard the latter part of what The Fool 
had said. They remained at the threshold, breath- 
less, speechless. Repressing the emotion which 
threatened to overcome them, they listened to the 
torrent of words, that laid bare the heart of the 
speaker. They could not move, for surprise and 
pity for what they had never guessed, left them in- 
capable of action. 

The silent figure kneeling at the bedside, con- 
tinued : 

''But it was not to be. God makes his own in- 
scrutable rules. I had presumed to disregard them. 
You will never know, Nannie dear, what the awak- 
ening was : — the tearing, the wrenching at the heart, 
and the burial of a life's love. You' have suffered, 


302 


THE FOOL. 


poor Nannie, so have I; but you will never know. 
Would to God that I could give my life for yours. 
There are those whose hearts cry out for you — for 
you to fill their lives; while I live on, loveless and 
alone.” 

His listeners had departed as noislessly as they 
had come. The Fool bent over the pillow, 
and pressed his lips to Nan’s forehead. Going to 
the kitchen, he took his hat, and, without a word, 
prepared to leave. The fisherman’s head was hur- 
ried in his hands. He was sobbing gently. He 
rose and held out his hand to The Fool. 

“Don’t be gone long, Lemmie,” he said. 

Betty crossed the room, and, taking The Fool’s 
hand, kissed him lightly on the cheek. Nothing fur- 
ther was said and he went out. 

“Didn’t you know it, Dave?” asked Betty, after 
she had visited the sick-room. Aunt Martha had 
come and was sitting beside Nan. 

“No,” he answered, “I never even suspected it.” 

“Poor Lem,” she said softly, “his love is as pure 
as a mother’s ; and he has hidden it all these years. 
If Nan recovers do you think he will tell her?” 

“No,” replied the fisherman, “he won’t. He 
thinks he has no right to love her. I know him, and 
my God ! his love would do honor to any woman on 
earth.” 


THE DEATH OF NAN. 


303 


But speculation as to Nan's recover}^ was not 
of long duration. A physician from Boston was 
called in consultation ; but he gave no hope. ^‘It is a 
matter of a few days," he said, ‘‘perhaps hours." 

Heaven intervened, and saved those around the 
sick bed unnecessary suffering. Nan never re- 
gained consciousness, and, in the quiet of the night, 
death came. Her life had burned out in a great and 
inextinguishable love; and her secret, but for the 
knowledge possessed by The Fool, died with her. 
With him, it was safe; and although he mourned 
her with a keen grief, there was this one comfort 
granted him — that Dave had been spared the truth. 

Grief welds closely the hearts of those who suffer 
a common loss; and Nan's death drew The Fool to 
Dave and Betty in a closer bond, all the more tender 
because of their knowledge of his secret love. 

When they returned from the country graveyard. 
Aunt Martha proposed that Dave shut up his home 
and stay with them, for the loneliness and desola- 
tion she knew constantly reminded him of his loss. 
But Dave begged for a few days of solitude; and 
they granted him the quiet that he craved. 

The days went by ; the weeks grew into months ; 
and Winter had come and gone with its flurries of 
snow and storms that swept the coast, dotting the 


THE FOOL. 


304 

sandy beach with the wreck of crafts unable to 
weather the gales. 

Dave’s voice and returning spirits grew with the 
advance of time, which made his loss seem lighter. 
Daily he and Betty spent many hours together, and 
a great happiness was replacing their grief for 
Nan. The wedding day had been set for the early 
Spring; and as the day drew near, so grew the joy 
in the heart of the fisherman. 


CHAPTER XXL 


Dave's wedding suit. 

It was good to hear the roar that greeted The 
Fool as he entered the door of Dave’s home the 
morning before the day fixed for the wedding. The 
voice had long been hushed, and its tones were like 
a greeting from an old friend. 

A light rain had fallen during the night ; but the 
sun’s rays shone with added brilliancy. The Fool’s 
cheeks were aglow when he entered, and his blood 
was tingling after a quick walk, and contact with 
the morning air, which was yet chilly. 

‘‘Ho, Lemmie, yer look like a full-blown peony. 
Yer cheeks are as red as two pippins. Hope this 
weather’ll last until after te-morrer. White kid 
boots, veils and choker collars ! Say ! tried on th’ 
suit ! It makes me look like a parson ! But as fer 
thet white necktie — I tell yer I won’t wear it, ’n thet 
settles it.” 

His visitor smiled, “dress up clothes” were not 
in Dave’s line, and he had an abhorrence for neck- 


wear. 


3o6 


THE FOOL. 


The Fool was to be ‘'best man/' much to the as- 
tonishment of the villagers, who declared that “Dave 
mus" be a little off, and as crazy as The Fool." But 
Dave did not listen to their comments, and Betty, to 
the overzealous, answered that the choice was hers. 
This did not tend to soothe the curious, and her se- 
lection lent a uniqueness to the coming ceremony 
that awakened resentment and much ill-natured gos- 
sip. Big Dan was the barometer of public sentiment 
in the community, but in this matter he nominated 
himself arbiter, censor of the censors, and Defend- 
ant General of the principals who were the subject 
of remark and criticism. 

Big Dan had a way of argument, and a manner 
of exploiting his views upon most subjects of public 
concern, which was distinctively his own; and, bar- 
ring Dave, there was no one in the village who could 
measure wits or tongue with him. When he was 
getting the worst of an argument, he resorted to 
language which, it must be admitted, was not ac- 
cording to the rules, nor in keeping with the usages 
or manners of polite society. Here, again, he was 
original, even generous, for he acknowledged his 
adversary's right to pursue the same tactics — well 
knowing that but few would dare adopt his meth- 
ods; and none possessed the unique and unsavory 


DAVE^S WEDDING SUIT, 


307 


vocabulary that, without seeming effort, he could 
call to his aid. 

When The Fool was publicly objected to as ‘'best 
man,’’ Dan met the remarks with words and man- 
ner that will long live in the memory of those un- 
fortunate enough to listen to the forceful and highly 
colored terms in which he denounced them; and 
even old man Davis could not check his lurid flow of 
language. 

One of the regular loungers at the store unhap- 
pily volunteered his view of the much-discussed 
topic : 

‘Tt beats me,” he drawled. “Dave’s gettin’ mar- 
ried was shock enough, an’ ‘ud take time ter git 
over it. But his hevin’ Th’ Fool fer ‘best man’ — I 
never heered him open his mouth, an’ I’v known him 
since he wer’ a kid.” 

“If you had half his wits, yer wouldn’t be warmin’ 
thet barrel-head,” rejoined Big Dan, sweetly. It 
was Dan’s look more than his words which was 
expressive. “Yer ain’t heered The Fool speak in 
twenty years, hev yer?” A pause, a look, and then ; 
“P’haps yer’ll answer me one question.” 

“Will, if I kin.” 

Conscious pride at being appealed to moved the 
speaker to meet Dan’s glare. Dan paused a mo- 
ment, before replying, to give his words true effect. 


3o8 


THE FOOL. 


‘'Did eny one ever see your mouth shet in th’ last 
twenty years?'' 

A painful silence. No reply to Dan's delicate 
question forthcoming, he proceeded. 

“Yer lazy, loafin' dead beat! Yer hevn't paid fer 
th' groceries yer've eaten out'n this store fer th' last 
eight months! “He included his listeners with a 
wave of his hairy paw. “An' if you fellers don't be- 
lieve it, ask old man Davis. There he is. Ask 
him. He can't deny it ! But I know it's a fact, even 
if I don't keep his books ; so you'd better shet up, an' 
leave Dave an' Lemmie alone." 

But Dave went on his way unmindful of it all; 
and, as The Fool went to the village but seldom, he 
heard nothing of what was said. 

Since Nan's death he had kept to himself, and 
did not often venture beyond Dave's home. This 
was not due to a lack of desire upon the part of 
Betty and the fisherman for a closer and more fa- 
miliar relationship, but he generally put aside their 
importunities and invitations, and lived his quiet, 
secluded life, content with his dog's companionship 
and his own thoughts. 

As The Fool stood before Dave, and looked about 
the room, he could well believe the fisherman's story 
that trouble was with him, for chairs, tables and 
floor were strewn with what he designated “his 


DAVE’S WEDDING SUIT. 


309 


weddin' rig.'* It was the first tailor-made suit that 
Dave had ever owned, and he protested long, and 
with energetic ardor, that ‘'it fit too dern close/' 
The boots, which were of patent leather, he desig- 
nated as “dude shoes," but he reserved his choicest 
expletives and withering scorn for the immaculately 
laundered shirt, collar and cravat. These, he af- 
firmed, were never made for him ; and he would as 
soon face death in a March gale as to wear them. 

He entered the adjoining room to don the de- 
spised suit, and through the open door came sounds 
that told of annoyance beyond the power of human 
patience to endure, culminating in a volley of epi- 
thets hurled at the heads of a debased public that 
would tolerate starched collars. Returning, he 
stood before The Fool. He was clean shaven, and 
faultlessly attired, for The Fool had selected the 
wedding garments from the boots to the despised 
collar and, as he gazed upon the transfonnation 
wrought by the change of clothing, his surprise was 
manifest. 

“Ther'." exclaimed' Dave, exultantly, “what did I 
tellyer! I look like thunder !" 

The Fool smiled. The man before him looked 
what he was — a magnificent specimen of perfect 
manhood: — tall, handsome, graceful, with the un- 
conscious bearing that is inborn, and never ac- 


310 


THE FOOL. 


quired ; the head of a statesman, and the shoulders 
and poise of a gladiator. 

''You look very well,’’ said The Fool. 

Had the fisherman one ounce of conceit, he could 
have discovered admiration in the eyes of the man 
before him, that critically took in every part of his 
dress and every line of his figure. 

Dave was sceptical. "Now, Lemmie, I’ll do jest 
as yer tell me ter, but don’t make fun of me. I 
know yer wouldn’t, but Fve looked in the glass, and 
I know thet I look like hell.” 

"You are not used to the fit yet, Davie; to- 
morrow you will feel more at home in them.” 

But it was not in the fisherman’s nature to thus 
easily surrender, and, while his eyes were on his 
companion, he was mentally planning a new line of 
attack. Here Fate deserted him ; for had he at once 
removed his outfit, and resumed his habitual attire, 
all would have gone well, and what follows would 
never have been written. Aunt Martha, without 
knocking, walked into the room followed by Betty. 

Dave, his face crimson, made a dash for the door. 
Aunt Martha, with the agility of a school girl, cap- 
tured him, and led him into the centre of the room. 

He cast a sheepish eye at Betty, but received no 
other encouragement than a laugh that rang in 
silvery peals, in which The Fool heartily joined. 


DAVRS WEDDING SUIT, 




Dave stood tongue-tied. What could he do with 
those patent leathers ? They seemed to leer at him, 
and their shiny surface to reflect his discomfort. 
The faultless cuffs showed below his sleeves. These 
he managed to hide behind him. Aunt Martha’s 
voice was tantalizing. 

'‘So yer’d hide from us with yer weddin’ suit on, 
would yer? Suppose yer want ter surprise us ter- 
morrer. Dave Kurran, Td never know yer! I 
didn’t know yer wer’ so good lookin’. Betty, isn’t 
he handsome in them clothes ?” 

Betty laughed the louder. So did The Fool. 
Aunt Martha, not releasing her captive, turned him 
around. 

"An’ they fit jest lovely. Who’d hev bdlieved 
thet this wer’ you?' Good Lor’ ! What won’t clothes 
do for a man ! I always said, though, David, that 
yer wer’ handsome.” Then to seal the verdict, she 
kissed him. 

"Lemmie, be this a put up job on yer Uncle 
Dave?” 

"No, it isn’t” interrupted Aunt Martha. "Yer 
didn’t come ter breakfast this mornin’, an’ I come 
over ter find out th’ reason. I needn’t ask if yer 
wer’ sick, fer by th’ look of yer, yer wusn’t.” 

"Sick? No. But I clean forgot th’ breakfast. 


312 


THE FOOL, 


Who could think of eatin’ if they had to wear these 
things th’ next day?’’ 

‘Wer’ll soon get over that, Dave Kurran. Yer’U 
find that love ain’t very fattenin’, and, as a general 
thing, thet cofifee an’ hot muffins will stand ter yer 
a mighty sight longer.” Which remark sent Betty 
blushing into the kitchen. Aunt Martha had not 
finished. 

“Lemmie,” she said, ‘'doesn’t he look fine?” 

Here Dave made his escape, and the others dis- 
cussed the details of the ' morrow. 

When Dave reappeared. Aunt Martha met him 
with a critical glance. His form was disguised in 
the loose, ill-fitting garments that he wore every 
week-day and, until recently, every Sunday. But his 
face was wreathed in the same cheery smile which 
instinctively drew one to him, for his features re- 
flected every emotion of his heart. Therein lay the 
secret of his seemingly perennial youth. 

“Well,” said Aunt Martha, “I don’t know which 
you look the best in, the everyday clothes or your 
weddin’ clothes; but I’m proud of yer, anyway. 
There, Betty, yer needn’t look so unconcerned. 
You’ve pestered me ever since breakfast ter come 
over here ’n’ see if anythin’ was th’ matter with ’im. 
An’ d’yer know, Davie, she wouldn’t eat a mouthful 
of breakfast because yer didn’t come.” 


DAVE^S WEDDING SUIT. 


313 


“Now Aunt Martha ’’ began Betty. 

“Don’t ‘Aunt Martha’ me ! I shall be glad when 
I bundle yer both off on th’ train ter Boston.” 

“An’ Bunker Hill,” said Dave, “an’ th’ State 
House. We’re goin’ ter see all th’ sights, ain’t we, 
Betty?” 

Betty’s blushes being the only reply, Aunt Martha 
continued : “An’ when yer git ter New York, I jest 
want yer ter write down in a book the name of every 
place yer go ter, so’s yer kin tell all about it when 
yer get home.” 

A cloud overspread Dave’s features. There was 
a grave in the cemetery where, even at that moment, 
the fresh cut flowers told of a recent visit. Time 
had blunted his sorrow; but no week had passed 
without his going to Nan’s last resting place. 

The Fool saw the look of pain in the eyes of the 
fisherman, and knowing that the reference to New 
York had brought before him the memory of his 
loss, turned the current of the conversation. 

“There won’t be much time to spare after the 
ceremony, if they are to catch the afternoon train.” 

“I know it,” rejoined Aunt Martha, “an’ Parson 
Dixon is as slow as molasses runnin’ from a stone 
jug in th’ month of January. Now, if I wer’ to 
write the services over agin. I’d jest ask th’ bride: 
‘Do you take this man fer yer husband? Yes. Will 


314 


THE FOOL. 


yer mind him? Yes/ An’ then ter th’ husband: 
'D’yer take this woman fer yer wife? Yes. Kin 
yer take keer of her?’ Thafs enough. An’ now, 
I’ll jest give you young people some advice. We 
don’t want any of the short-haired women or the 
long-haired men in our family. You, David, air 
ter be boss from th’ start ; and ef yer heven’t gump- 
tion enough ter keep yer end up, don’t either of yer 
come runnin’ ter me with yer troubles. An’ you, 
Betty, jest keep in mind thet ther’s a man in th’ 
house, an’ that one's enough. / once thought thet 
I could keep my end up an’ yer Uncle John’s, too; 
but one fine day, I woke ter th’ fact that yer Uncle 
John thought that he was th’ head of th’ house — an’ 
it took him a mighty short time ter make me think 
so. Come, Betty, time ter be gettin’ th’ dinner.” 

'‘An’ I’m as hungry as a shark,” volunteered 
Dave. 

Haste seemed necessary, and the women took 
their departure. 

There were many consultations held during the 
day, and both households were in a flutter of excite- 
ment. The wedding was to be a quiet affair ; but a 
breakfast was to be served after the ceremony — and 
this fact was enough to keep Aunt Martha in a flut- 
ter of excitement. 

The Fool saw the preparations progress, and was 


DAVES WEDDING SUIT. 315 

filled with joy at Dave’s happiness. But a feeling 
of regret was always with him, for he knew that 
after the fisherman’s marriage their present familiar 
intercourse would be at an end. At its best, his life 
was not over bright ; but the prospect of his coming 
loneliness he put from him, and hid in his heart the 
thought of his future. 

He entered his own home, to be met with his 
usual loyal greeting. 

‘Toor Pont,” he said, ''we shall have to depend 
more upon each other in the future. This isn’t a 
pleasant world at its best. Our few friends are 
coming and going all the time, leaving gaps in our 
lives that we must fill. Friendships are like the 
vine that clings to the tree, and, all at once, there is 
an uprooting, and the leaves and the stalk die. It 
hurts for a time, Pont, but we go on living, and the 
little shoots attach themselves to another support 
and cling and grow again. We shall be very lonely, 
you and I, when Davie goes away; and when he 
returns it won’t be quite the same. We’ll have to 
love each other a little more, that’s all. Do you 
think you can, Pont?” 

The dog was sure that he could not, and went 
about during the day with a very serious air, for he 
knew that his master was not entirely happy. 

The evening fell, and the soft spring breeze died 


3i6 


THE FOOL. 


into low whispers. A new moon, with faint, sheen- 
like beauty — that needed only age to mock at the 
brilliancy of the stars — hung low in the west. Pont, 
with wandering, heavy eyes, noted that his master 
did not sleep, but sat at his table writing. Mid- 
night’s mysterious hush ; then the clock at measured 
intervals — one — two — three. The first gray streaks 
of dawn; the cock’s noisy, discordant rejoicing; the 
leaves trembling as the breeze sighed fitfully through 
the tops of the cherry tree beside the window. The 
Fool threw himself on his bed and slept. 


CHAPTER XXIL 


SWEET CIDER WITH A FIZZ. 

It was twelve o'clock. The wedding hour had 
come. Betty, in a gray cloth traveling dress, stood 
beside Dave, and Parson Dixon pronounced them 
man and wife. 

Tears mingled with kisses, and the sentimental 
emotions, without which weddings would be as 
commonplace as an everyday occurrence, swept the 
wedding guests in varying degrees of intensity. 
But the untouched breakfast checked their effer- 
vescent joys and sorrows. Aunt Martha beamed. 
Uncle John was radiant, and the few guests divided 
their attention between the cold fowl, salads, and 
wine. Uncle John had his own opinion of what was 
appropriate in the drinking line. It now found ex- 
pression in 1880 champagne, much to the surprise 
of those of the guests who were total abstainers, 
but who, upon his assurance that it was a new brand 
of cider with a fizz, partook freely — with varying 
and lasting effect. 

But it was upon Dave and The Fool that their 


THE FOOL. 


eyes and minds lingered. Both men were dressed 
in black frock coats; the one, radiantly happy; the 
other, calmly reserved, silent, but with an air of the 
cool, polished man of the world. The guests mar- 
velled, and wondered how this man — whom they 
had always known as The Fool, had lived so long 
among them, and had never been noticed by them 
before. 

And the fizzy champagne mounted to their heads, 
loosened their tongues, and diluted their judgment, 
and they babbled on with varying degrees of discre- 
tion. Uncle John filled their glasses — for the fizzy 
stuff was pleasing to the taste — until neighbors, 
with a twenty-year-old feud, forgot past grievances 
and declared for undying friendship. 

Aunt Martha rose and the feast was at an end. 
Not so the effect of the fizzy cider, and with hats 
and bonnets awry the guests prepared to take their 
departure. 

There was one guest who drank little and ob- 
served much — Big Dan. He had been invited by 
Dave, and was made much of ; for, notwithstanding 
the abuse the fisherman always heaped upon him, he 
reserved a warm spot in his heart which Dan occu- 
pied alone. 

Now, Dan was not in entire sympathy with the 
gathering. The greater number of the guests 


SWEET CIDER WITH A FIZZ, 319 

moved in a circle to which Dan had never found an 
entrance. This fact did not in the least disturb his 
ordinarily placid existence; for, as a class, he held 
them in contempt. What he designated as their 
‘'fish airs'' did not please him, and he allowed no op- 
portunity to escape without referring to them in 
language and manner distinctively his own. 

While the guests are saying farewell and god- 
speed to Dave and Betty, we will accompany Dan 
to the store. 

It was plain to be seen that he was amused. Sun- 
dry ejaculations that he indulged in on the way, 
gave a hint of what was to come. There was an 
unusual number in the store, and they were ablaze 
with a desire for news of the wedding. 

“Well, Dan, how'd th' weddin' go oflf?" 

“All right." Boiling inwardly, and having diffi- 
culty to control his desire to tell all in a breath, he 
assumed an offhand manner. 

“Many there?" 

“Oh, yes, quite a few." 

“Have a feed?" 

“Yes, I should jedge it was th' fust time some of 
'em hed anything ter eat in months." 

“Pretty dry there, I suppose. Tea and ice- 
water?" 

Dan was gradually working himself up to a 


320 


THE FOOL. 


proper degree of wrath and disgust, and mentally 
running over his vocabulary, to find suitable terms 
to fittingly deliver a just and true descriptive criti- 
cism of the affair. He disregarded the next few 
questions. He was arranging his material, and, 
when it was ready, began in low and sweetly seduc- 
tive tones. 

wonder if some of them critters ever hed a 
good square feed at home. They flounced around 
with fancy togs, and put on a front, and you and me 
they look upon as so much cattle. Well, that's all 
right. They've got some money. But yer shud hev 
seen them eat! Thefs what yer shud hev seen. 
Then Uncle John Nickerson brings on some cham- 
pagne — champagne, mind yer — and tells the teeto- 
talers — the women's temperance folks — thet 'twas 
sweet cider with a fizz in it. Then yer shud hev 
seen them drink ! They tasted it, an' they liked it, 
an' th' pesky fools were drunk inside of twenty 
minutes ; an' th' beauty of it wer' they didn't know 
it. Uncle John kept on fillin' their glasses, an' they 
kept on drinkin'. 'Twarn't long before th' Keiths 
an' th' Holland folks were talkin' an' laughin' to- 
gether, jest th' same as if they hed been on speakin' 
terms fer th' past five years." 

Here he interrupted his narrative to bestow upon 
both families, individually and collectively, some of 


SWEET CIDER WITH A FIZZ, 


321 


his choicest epithets, with sundry reflections upon 
their ancestors which will not bear repeating. Hav- 
ing paid his respects to the two families in question, 
he continued : 

^'Yer know when a woman is over forty an’ hes 
never hed a feller, she ain’t what yer might call an 
interestin’ critter. Them kind somehow get silly 
after thet age. I always figgered it thet the disap- 
pointment of never hevin’ th’ good luck ter ketch 
on kinder went ter their heads. Well, Sue Adams 
wer’ ther’, an’ she tried some of th’ fizzy cider. 
Cider ! It wer’ th’ finest champagne thet ever struck 
th’ Cape ! She tried it, an’ she liked it ; an’ some of 
th’ fizz got up her nose. Then she te-heed and gig- 
gled an’ looked foolish; but she always went back 
to th’ fizzy cider. Now, I don’t give a darn whether 
yer believe me or not, but inside er ten minutes, she 
wer’ as full as a goat, or as full as Tom Ridder wer’ 
last Fourth of July night.” 

Tom grinned, and the others nodded that they 
realized Sue’s condition. They had seen Tom. 

‘‘Ycu wait until some of ’em go by th’ store on 
ther’ way home. You’ll see some fancy skatin’, or 
I don’t know what a skate is.” 

They waited and they saw, and for once a halo 
of truth rested on the brow of honest Big Dan. 

The newly wedded pair, with Aunt Martha and 


322 


THE FOOL, 


Unde John, stood upon the platform in front of the 
railroad station twenty minutes before the train 
which was to take them to Boston was due. Twenty 
long minutes, and yet how short a time for 
Dave and Betty to break away from their past 
life; for when they step into the train, they will 
leave behind the life that had been filled with the 
joys, the sorrows and the heart tempests of their 
youth, and of their later and maturer years. And 
the train will usher them into that unknown world 
where other joys and sorrows await them, in the 
vague, mysterious future. What were their lives 
to be? Of their own making, or will that unknown 
power which lives in the realm of Nowhere, lead 
them, by its malign influence, into the pitfalls of an 
abyss that is bottomless, tangling their lives into a 
hopeless discord, only to leave them stranded on the 
shores of Despair ? God grant that you, Dave and 
Betty, escape from such. Lock your love in your 
hearts and throw away the key ; for you are going 
into a world that loves not what is pure. The world 
will not understand what you feel, so heed it not; 
nor listen to it ; for its words are as the song of the 
siren, that lures its victims to destruction. You are 
tasting now the sweets of bliss — a bliss which is 
born of a lack of knowledge. Take one glimpse of 
this world, as you would a sweep of country from 


SWEET CIDER WITH A FIZZ, 


323 


the top of a tower; then hurry back and renew the 
life that you left on your wedding day, thanking 
God that you are saved from a knowledge of things 
that be. 

A parting kiss and handshake for Aunt Martha 
and Uncle John; a shriek of the engine; a rumbling 
of wheels, a fluttering of handkerchiefs and of 
hearts, and they are gone. 


CHAPTER XXIIL 


''PONT^ IT IS TIME TO SLEEP/’ 

It was the week after the departure of Dave and 
Betty. The day had been unusually warm for the 
season. The rays of the setting sun, thrown against 
a bank of clouds, foretold a tempest. Dusk descend- 
ed quickly. Moonbeams, like a flashlight thrown 
from some distant point of land, shimmered on the 
water far out at sea; then, as the clouds shifted, 
burst forth in momentary brilliancy. Again mak- 
ing their escape, the struggling rays touched the 
lining of the cloud-bank, and resumed their revel, 
dancing riotously on the surface of the fretting 
water. 

The Fool and Pont stepped to the landing from 
Dave’s boat. Making the boat fast, they ascended 
the bluff and walked in the direction of the village. 
They had gone but a short distance when they 
turned into a side street, skirted the village, and 
approached the cemetery. 

It was quite dark as they entered the grounds, 
and, at each intermittent flash of light, when the 


TONT, IT IS TIME TO SLEEP: 


325 

clouds were swept from before the moon, rows of 
white headstones seemed to spring from the ground, 
like an army of disturbed spirits called into life — 
only to disappear as suddenly, when the scudding 
clouds shut out the moon's rays. 

Pont, by some indefinable instinct, seemed to real- 
ize their mission, and the sacredness of their sur- 
roundings, and marched with sedate tread behind 
his master's heels. He knew their errand, for they 
had made many visits there together. 

'Tont," said his master, ''there lie here those 
who have lived and loved and suffered — aye, even 
as your master has^ — and now all that is left of their 
memory are these white stones, to remind a world 
which too easily forgets. And the dumb letters 
carved in the cold marble tell us that their part in 
Life's drama is ended — their scene is finished — 
that other actors have taken up their roles, and the 
play goes on. In some, comedy found exponents 
who played the game of tlie life; others, a tragic 
role enacted; and when the curtain dropped upon 
their eventful lives, it brought the only peace 
their poor hearts had ever known. Still others, per- 
chance, lie here, whose life-embers burned them- 
selves out in vain desires and hopes unfulfilled — 
forever waiting for that which never came, until the 
inexorable wand touched them, and they found the 


326 


THE FOOL. 


rest — the long, long rest, which was their one re- 
ward for an empty life. Young lovers here now 
sleep, their lives ended ere they had begun. Alas! 
to die in the bright promise of their youth, even 
while the cup of happiness, untasted, filled to over- 
flowing, was held to their lips. See. Here is a 
name and an age that tell its own sad story. To be 
cut off in the very fulness of her youth, budding 
into womanhood — when the blood is warm, when 
the pulses quicken, and the ready blush proclaims 
her virgin thoughts. And on this stone, here, age 
has found a glad relief from maddening cares that 
tortured heart and mind. Like a ship that has been 
tossed and buffeted at the pleasure of every chang- 
ing wind, driven from place to place, until, with sail 
and rigging rent, it is cast upon some shore where 
the pounding waves finish the wreck upon which 
every storm has left its scar — you, too, perhaps, 
found here the only haven from a fretful world. 
Rest, poor soul, rest. And here. How well I know 
the grave. Poor Nan. Poor, misguided child. 
How you must have loved. Yet you suffered more. 
How sad the end — yet Heaven, in its kindness, 
saved you from that lingering death when regret 
lives on and will not die, and remorse eats out the 
heart. You loved, and who can say that your great 
loyalty did not wash away your shortcomings. Who 


*TONT, IT IS TIME TO SLEEP r 327 

shall dare judge? Not I, my poor Nan, not 1. 
Sleep on, Nannie, none but myself know your story 
of love and sorrow; and when my time comes, and 
I leave behind me the world I love so little, I shall 
take with me all that mortals knew of the wreck 
of your young life. Here, Nannie, are some flow- 
ers — bright, bright colors that you loved so well. 
They will tell you that you are not forgotten, Nan- 
nie, dear.’' 

A storm was gathering. The sky was overcast, 
and as he was about to depart, a flash of lightning 
threw an unearthly halo over tomb and headstone. 

‘Tont,” said his master, as they struck into the 
highway and turned homeward. ‘‘In this life, what- 
ever comes, or whatever goes, whatever joys or sor- 
rows may be ours, all roads, lead here. Here dif- 
ferences are leveled — all men are equal. Here at 
this gate, all that is unreal in life is surrendered; 
beyond this, clay is but clay, dust is but dust. It’s 
not a pleasant place to visit, is it, Pont?” 

They entered the village, and, through the open 
door of the store, they could se Big Dan surrounded 
by his admirers ; for Dan had been wise far beyond 
his station. His silence, as to certain past financial 
transactions, left him still surrounded with a mys- 
tery that was his capital. 

The Fool and Pont reached home none too soon, 


328 


THE FCOE 


for the mutterings of the coming storm were be- 
coming more pronounced. 

The dog, when they went into the house, seemed 
imbued with the feeling of quiet which had taken 
possession of his master. Seating himself before 
the open door. The Fool silently looked out into the 
gathering darkness, that was momentarily dispelled 
by flashes of lightning; while peal upon peal of 
thunder rumbled in unearthly echoes over their 
heads. A fork of lightning cleft the sky, and Pont 
cuddled up to his master. No rain had yet fallen, 
and there was a midsummer sultriness in the air. 

‘Tont,’’ his master’s voice was bantering, “surely 
you’re not afraid?” 

The dog shook his head, and cast a disapproving 
eye at the open door. He was not afraid; but a 
tongue of flame, like a serpent’s fang, darted across 
the heavens, seeming, for an instant, to play upon 
the ground in front of him. With the darkness 
which followed in its wake came a deafening roar. 

Pont shuddered. He cast an entreating eye at 
his master. 

“Don’t fear, Pont, our time has not come. We 
have yet our quota of suffering in life before us.” 
The raindrops began pattering on the roof, and, as 
the tempest passed out to sea, settled into a steady 
downpour. 


'TONT, IT IS TIME TO SLEEP/' 329 

The night wore on. Dog and master sipped their 
tea, and the master took his pipe from the mantel 
and smoked long and silently. Indications which the 
dog well knew pointed to a night of writing and 
smoking, interspersed with fragmentary conversa- 
tion. Pont rather liked the prospect, for, some- 
times, his master grew confidential; besides, there 
were the sweet biscuits. He was never forgotten. 

The tobacco smoke drifted in clouds close to the 
ceiling, and the rain kept up its pattering song. 
Within the house there were other sounds, and 
these would have made the heart’s blood of one 
not accustomed to them, run cold. The Fool 
listened and smiled grimly. Pont slunk to his 
master’s side and eyed the door leading to the front 
hall. His master patted him on the head. 

‘Tn another week,” said The Fool, ‘'Dave and 
Betty will be at home again. Won’t you be glad?” 

Pont forgot the sounds which always seemed to 
come with the storm — forgot to eye the door, and 
the ridge of hair on his back fell. He answered his 
master with joyous barks, and regarded him with 
incredulous eyes. 

“It’s true,” said his master, “they’ll be at home 
within a week. Had a letter from Betty to-day. 
Dear Dave and Betty. How glad I shall be to see 
them. Their life-happiness is before them. Peace 


330 


THE FOOL, 


and contentment, which will grow with their in- 
creasing years, wait for them here. And time will 
give to them that look of settled calm when the 
heart’s longings are satisfied, and nothing is lacking 
to make life complete. Little ones will come, their 
childish prattle making Heaven-sent music; and, 
when they are old enough to understand, Dave will 
tell them of Nannie, who died long, long ago, 
and, perhaps, he will also speak of The Fool, and 
he’ll speak kindly, for he knew of his lonely life, 
and was always gentle with him.” 

Pont recognized the tone of dejection in the voice. 
Wishing to change the current of his master’s 
thoughts, and, incidentally, to profit thereby, he 
asked for a biscuit. 

His double design was successful, and his master 
continued in a more cheerful tone. 

‘‘You and I, Pont, have had one little glimpse of 
the world. But there is a greater and more beauti- 
ful world beyond, which we have never seen. Shall 
we go, you and I, into this world? If we sicken 
of it, as we surely shall, we will_^come back here. 
And, in the winter nights, when the logs blaze, and 
the wind whistles around the corner of the house, 
we will talk of what we have seen.” 

Pont voiced his delight. He would go anywhere, 
and, if necessary, start on the instant. Now that 


'TONT, IT IS TIME TO SLEEP r 331 

the subject was open, he would say that he did not 
approve of the general air of dejection which had 
enveloped his master since Dave’s wedding. To 
this his master replied, that perhaps he had been 
depressed as well as lonely. ‘"But,” he continued, 
“we’ll brighten up, for ” 

Pont, with a growl, turned in the direction of the 
hall door. The clock struck the half hour after mid- 
night, and the rain beat against the window. Steps 
descending the stairs were audible, and as distinct 
as the ticking of the clock. A swirl of the wind 
around the corner of the house ; the clang of a blind, 
and the sound of a laugh rang through the rooms 
above — a mirthless, mocking, nerve-disturbing 
sound; the taunting mirth of a lost, defiant soul — 
the sound dying in echoes among the eaves and the 
emptiness above. 

The dog’s eyes sought those of his master. 

“Pont, seek not to know what would be a torment 
to thee. Thou hast heard me say that the truly 
happy man is the man that doesn’t know. So it is 
with dogs. Content thyself. What thou art list- 
ening to is not pleasing to the ear; a closer inti- 
macy might be productive of less delight. There 
are many things in this life beyoynd our under- 
standing, which laugh at science, and invite mad- 
ness. Do you think you could eat a biscuit ?” 


332 


THE FOOL. 


Pont danced his acceptance. 

‘'You should have been born a man. There is a 
fixed belief that you can rule man through the heart 
and the mind. Bah! You can reach him only 
through the stomach. He is a species of animal, 
more or less refined, governed by rules whose elas- 
ticity is made to conform to climate, natural con- 
ditions, his subservience to a social code, and the 
state of his purse. He is a gross feeder, with little 
judgment and less discernment; consequently, if his 
means allow, he eats and drinks himself into an 
early grave. You wouldn't be a man, would you?" 

“No, I wouldn't," said the dog, “but I like those 
biscuits." 

“Pont, you had better take a nap. Pm not sleepy 
and shall write. When your master finishes the 
book he is writing, he's going to offer it to the pub- 
Jishers. I can almost hear them say: ‘Yes, there 
are some truths in the book, but our readers don't 
want them. We want stories founded on history. 
Authentic? that doesn't matter. It's the color we 
want; plenty of sword play, knee breeches and all 
that;' or from the other: ‘We want something 
unique. If you can, build your story around real, 
human beings; if you can't — well, anyway, you 
must have it new, odd, unconventional.' Literature 
is going through the hothouse process of forcing. 


TONT, IT IS TIME TO SLEEP: 


333 


Sometime another Dickens or Thackeray will ap- 
pear who will write of human beings and human 
passions as they exist/' 

Silence followed, broken only by the scratching 
of the pen, the resounding raindrops, and the tire- 
less clock measuring the march of time. The dog 
closed his eyes, but not to sleep. He blinked at his 
master from his rug by the hearthstone, and his 
drowsy eyes, like smouldering coals, spoke of pa- 
tient love that never slumbered. The night wore 
on. The Fool rose, leaned wearily against the win- 
dow and looked out into the blackness. He spoke 
dreamily : 

‘'Night, vague, mysterious, soulless night. Thine 
is the power that breeds conspiracies and crime. 
Thine the cloak of darkness that awakes Man's 
slumbering passions, which, slinking from the light, 
steal forth with leprous stealth and bastard courage 
born of thy protection. 'Tis during thy reign that 
honor slumbers, and the foulness of base-born de- 
sire stalks abroad, cloaked in raiments of thy mak- 
ing. The jealous lover, in whose heart the flame of 
passion has tempered the dagger's point, finds in 
thee the ally that he seeks, ere his thirst for ven- 
geance is quenched in the crimson stream that fol- 
lows the pointed steel. In thy darkest hours dost 
thou listen, whilst the heart wails forth its fulness of 


334 


THE FOOL. 

despair, and, with the callousness of hoary age, with 
ear tuned to misery, dost thou, unheeding, roll on 
into another hopeless day. The weeping Heavens 
move thee not, for thou art hardened to all grief, 
and thou dost draw thy inky mantle yet more close- 
ly round the sorrowing earth, to hide from shud- 
dering Nature thy all too conscious shame. Vain, 
heartless night. Thou hast case thy shadow on my 
life, on my soul, and shaped my destiny, guiding me 
by hidden ways o’er baren wastes. No ray of light 
breajcs through the barrier, no gleam of hope ahead 
to guide my too reluctant steps. With me, all, all 
is black, impenetrable night.” 

The rain had ceased. The first gray streaks of 
light were fighting their way in the east, and night 
was stealing onward. The first golden gleams of 
the morning sun, struggling through a fissure in a 
mountain of clouds, fell aslant The Fool’s face, as 
he stood looking out of the window. 

‘Tont,” the voice was weary, “it is time to sleep.” 


THE END. 


LBJe iO 











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